The Death of a Guardsman
by Whiteshield Cannon Fodder
Summary: A young, inexperienced Imperial Guardsman is stranded on an ork-infested world. All he has to help him are his standard-issue gear, an inextinguishable faith in the Emperor and a small band of wayward heretics.
1. Armatura

**A/N: The following story contains heresy of the highest order. Nevertheless, reviews and criticism will be appreciated.**

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 **It is the 42** **nd** **millennium. For more than a hundred centuries, the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.**

 **Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest among his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes – the Space Marines, bioengineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.**

 **To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace among the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.**

* * *

 **Foreword**

My name is Fenwick. Thomas Fenwick, as of the beginning of this story. I don't really go by my first name, haven't since joining the Guard. Part of it, I think, has to do with my dad clapping me on the shoulder just before I left and telling me to do right by the family name. Oh, if they knew what I've been up to…

You will, soon. This is my journal, after all.

Now, in the case of my story, I must ask that you refrain from judging me a traitor until the very end. The way I saw things sort of… changed, as events progressed, and only in retrospect can I truly see how far my understanding of things has shifted. So I humbly ask that you bear with me until the very end. Once that's done, you can cry heresy and condemn me all you like. But save that for afterwards; now, let me tell you about my little misadventure on the delightful world of Armatura.

* * *

"Remind me where we're going?" The guardsman sitting to my left was speaking to me. I blinked out of my state of reverie and looked over to him, noting the tired expression he wore. I smirked inwardly; with the exception of myself and a few others, we were all conscripts here. Not a one of us had seen a battlefield, and this person was already tired. I suppose I couldn't blame him; we'd been on this ship for almost three weeks, and I was getting a little sick of it myself. I was one of the few who actually signed onto the guard instead of being conscripted. I wanted to be here. The guy to my left probably couldn't have cared less.

"Armatura," I told him, and he nodded and returned to staring into his mug of recaf. He didn't need to know more. He was as aware of the details as anyone: we were the reinforcements to the guardsmen already stationed there. Just a few orks that had been running amok, they said, and we probably wouldn't be seeing any actual battle. Apparently the guard already had it under control. So far, being in the Astra Militarum was sounding like a piece of cake. Be organized, keep your uniform clean and your gear in good shape, don't talk back to your commissar, and you were golden.

We entered the atmosphere at midday, or so we were told. We certainly couldn't tell; this planet's skies were red. That widened a lot of eyes, being a far cry from Fenksworld's ever-changing weather. Hive worlds and war worlds are, well, worlds apart in that regard. You could sense it, too, as we descended rapidly. Even before we touched down, I got a sinking feeling in my stomach, and just by looking around I could tell everyone else was experiencing the same. Something wasn't right, and we all knew it.

Our pilot landed us smack-dab in the middle of the camp, and though we were all eager to say goodbye to the transport we'd endured for the better part of a month, our exit from the vessel was slow and uncertain. We conscripts were accompanied by a single commissar, and a glance backwards told me that he was just as confused and uncomfortable as the rest of us.

The camp was dead as the dust blowing through it. Empty tents, broken crates, scattered cups and bottles of amasec. And at the end of the camp, this wall. It looked like a bunch of misshapen sandbags, hastily and haphazardly stacked on top of each other. None of us knew what was going on, until an ork with a rokkit fixed to its back came flying out of the dust, slamming straight into our ship's cockpit and going to town with the crude axe in his hand. Our poor pilot was dead in moments, and as the rest of us yelled in alarm and began to take aim at the lone ork, the wall at the end of the camp exploded.

A severed arm, encrusted with filth and blood, flopped to the ground at my feet, and I recoiled in horror. Perhaps that was what saved me, because an autogun's fire whistled through the space I'd been just a second before, filling the conscript behind me with bullets. Looking down at that arm, and back at the now-destroyed wall, I understood: it had been made of dead guardsmen, that wall - all piled up on each other in a grotesque mound of bodies. Their slayers now came leaping and whooping and roaring over that wall: Orks, dozens of them. Whether they had been concealed by the dust or hidden under the bodies while we landed, they were here now, and they wanted our blood.

"WAAAGH!"

"Waaagh!" I screamed back, not nearly as loud, and took aim. Several people immediately turned tail and ran. Our commissar was too busy shrieking orders and firing randomly into the oncoming orks to discipline the deserters, and anyway, they met their ends soon enough. As if things weren't bad enough already, from the dust behind us a savage whirring noise split the air. It was a sound I would become intimately familiar with before long, but in that moment, it might have been the most startling noise I'd ever heard. In the span of a moment, the lead escapee was viciously shorn in half by an unseen weapon. Another's face spontaneously erupted, and the last few burst into flame, falling to their knees and clawing futilely at their immolated heads. I didn't have time to try and understand what was going on back there, as the orks had reached the first line infantry.

I am not exaggerating when I say that we crumbled like stale bread before those greenskins. You must understand: we were, almost to a man, completely inexperienced, and outnumbered two to one. We had never pointed a gun at an actual enemy, nor had we come here expecting to. Still, I fired my lasrifle dutifully, teeth clenched as I tried to ignore the agonized cries of my falling fellows. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man who had sat to my left during the descent now hoisted over a Nob's head, screaming as his body was ripped in half and cast in pieces to the earth. Lasers riddled the Nob's body to little effect, and with a jovial roar, it continued on its rampage through the hapless guardsmen. A wayward rokkit found our unfortunate commissar, annihilating most of his upper body.

An ork Boy, swinging its choppa wildly, opened the stomach of the man to my right and elbowed me hard in the ribs. My breath knocked out of me, I sank to one knee, and was sent flying when another one barreled into me, ignoring my kneeling form in favour of the soon-to-be-dead woman behind me. A spatter of blood hit the side of my boot as I lay, dazed and in pain. I knew I had broken ribs, but I also knew that I had to get up, or I'd be trampled by battle-crazed Boyz. The crunch of booted feet slowly approaching got me to push myself onto my elbows and look up. There was the Nob, grinning horribly, its power klaw clenching and unclenching with adrenaline and excitement. Well, I thought, this is it. Not even my first proper mission and I'm already dead. Good going, Fenwick.

This thought was shattered when the noise from before came back at full volume. The Nob's eyes widened in stupid surprise, a throaty growl issuing from its mouth. And then, with a bestial howl, the huge chainaxe completed its arc, mincing the ork's neck and sending its head tumbling to the blood-soaked earth.

As the body slowly toppled sideways, I saw him for the first time. A lanky youth, no older than I, with a shock of red hair stained redder by gore. Wearing tattered civilian pants and a breastplate that revealed much of his wiry but well-muscled frame, and on his face, the broadest smile and brightest eyes I'd ever seen. The world swam before me as I looked upon the shapes emerging from the dust behind him, and when I lost consciousness, I was still completely certain that I was as good as dead.

When I awoke, the sky was less red. Well, still red, but of a more earthy quality. Or perhaps it was dark orange? Almost looked like a sunset. I missed sunsets, I realized; even the dim, hazy ones on Fenksworld could be captivating – if not wholly pleasant – if you were bold enough to climb to a level where light properly reached through the grimy, dark clouds. From an Upper Hive balcony, they might have looked even nicer, but I'd never had the privilege to be on one. I wondered then if, had I come from a richer family, I would have signed up for the guard anyway. Perhaps I would still be on Fenksworld, enjoying those rather grim sunsets with a glass of amasec and a pretty noblewoman laughing at my stiff, awful jokes.

These inane speculations were what filled my thoughts as I lay on my back, looking up at that sky, dimly aware of the bodies and pooled blood all around me. I laughed hoarsely at the fact that I was alive, that everyone else was dead, and I was all by myself – no, that wasn't true. I was simply the only human on the planet, and would have plenty of company from the orks. I might have lain there longer, were it not for the voices that answered my laughter.

"Oi, he's awake!" A young, gravelly voice, full of excitement and vigour.

"What a pity." A guttural rumble, carrying with it age, boredom and derision.

"Just as planned." A whisper that reached in my soul and mind, tinged with amusement.

"Lucky boy." A woman's voice, unnaturally smooth and rich. I blinked and forced myself to sit up.

There, standing around me and peering down, were four humanoid shapes, two of which towered over the others. I immediately recognized the crimson-haired young man from before. He was leaning on that chainaxe and was grinning like he'd caught a fish. I noted his oddly sharp, grey teeth, and worry immediately began to gnaw at me. Sharp teeth and a chainaxe, not to mention…

I looked at the two towering figures, and scrambled to my feet, my lasrifle abandoned and the pain in my ribs forgotten. They each had to be eight feet tall. The one was clad in spiky black helmetless armour, had spiky black hair, and carried a spiky bolt pistol and a huge spiky sword. He was just spiky all over, this monster of a man. His orange, wolfish eyes were fixed on me with unconcealed scorn, even approaching disgust. I wasn't sure what I did to earn his disapproval, and I got the odd feeling that I would never really know.

The other giant's armour was light blue and gold, not nearly as spiky as the black-clad one's. I couldn't see his face, as it was concealed behind a helmet topped by a rather large ornamental headdress. A long, hooked staff was leaned on his gilded pauldron. He observed me through glowing eye-slits in his helmet; his body language told me he was relaxed, or perhaps simply unconcerned.

I stumbled back, my mouth falling open in awe. Everyone knew the stories, whether they were told to them as legends on their homeworld or as factual recollections by guardsmen. The men before me were the descendants of the Emperor himself, fabled warriors who unfailingly brought death to the enemies of mankind.

"You're Space Marines," I whispered, still unable to believe my eyes.

"And you're a Guardsman," sneered the black-clad warrior. "A Guardsman who, by all rights, should have died, until someone decided to save your worthless life."

"Oi, I didn't know I was saving anyone until I'd tripped over him. I thought I was just chopping off a Nob's head." It was the kid with the chainaxe speaking. I looked from him to the Space Marines, not quite comprehending. I was no expert on the Adeptus Astartes, but I knew enough to be sure that he was _not_ one of them. He grinned sheepishly at me. "Yeah, I saved you. Don't let it go to your head, though – first time was an accident, and second time probably won't happen."

"Many thanks," I mumbled, feeling very much like I'd awoken from a nightmare into a fever dream. The feeling of something soft pressing against my back as two pairs of arms encircled me from behind only added to this feeling. Especially when I stopped to think about that. "Wait…"

"Where's my thanks?" the woman's voice from before cooed in my ear, soft and… delicious. That's not an adjective I would normally ascribe to anyone's voice, but hers was. Equally soft lips pressed against my ear, making my breath hitch. Just a little concerned for my safety, I pulled away and looked at the woman, and what I saw made my stomach turn in fear.

Dressed in scanty rune-engraved black armour, her body lithe and curvaceous, and her smiling face impossibly beautiful, was what could only be a daemon. Her skin was an odd shade of purplish white, and two of her four arms ended in wicked chitinous claws. Her long, graceful legs had birdlike talons instead of feet. As she watched me scramble away from her, she laughed, but it wasn't a cruel laugh, which only made me all the more wary. "Ooh, he's afraid! I feel bad now…perhaps I should have let him bleed out."

"Huh?" I looked down at my torso. Sure enough, there was a strip of cloth, wound tightly around my ribs, with a red stain over my broken bones. The Daemonette laughed again, moving towards me and using a claw to tilt my chin up to look at her. Those eyes were mesmerizing…

"You were bleeding quite badly, so I took some cloth and put together some makeshift bandages," she said, smiling winningly at me. I looked back at the Astartes behind me, at the chainaxe kid, and the looks on their faces told me it was true. Not only that, but her being there unapprehended confirmed one thing for certain.

My face fell in abject defeat. "You're all heretics, aren't you?"

"Yes." The chainaxe youth chuckled, looking far too at ease with this revelation. "Does that make you uncomfortable?"

"Of course it does!" I sputtered, eyes flickering from him to my discarded lasrifle. Even if I could reach it in time – and I was fairly certain I couldn't – there was no way I could take out two Space Marines, a daemon _and_ Chainaxe. From which arose the question- "…Why aren't I dead already?"

"Because I saved you, silly," said the Daemonette, brushing past me to stand beside the blue-and-gold marine.

"No, that's not what I mean," I protested, wondering what was keeping my tongue going in the presence of these heretics. "Why didn't you kill me?" Or leave me to die? I looked at the Daemonette, who winked back at me. Spiky got to his feet and switched on the power field around his sword. I swallowed as his glare bored into me.

"If you'd rather be dead, that could easily be arranged," he said coldly.

"Um… no, thanks," I squeaked.

The red-haired young man sighed and hefted that monstrous axe across his shoulders. It was only then that I noticed – the weapon was as big as he was. How in the Emperor's name did he wield it? He stepped closer to me, and I must've flinched, because he stopped and frowned. "Like I said, it was an accident at first. Rosie just had to go and fix you up, because that's what she does." He looked over his shoulder at the Daemonette, who smugly crossed her two pairs of arms. "But looking at you now…" His eyes were on me once more, and I felt their intensity. Looking into them was like peering down the barrels of a pair of flamers. "…there really would be no satisfaction in fighting you. You don't even know how to use a gun. Shooting an ork in the gut!"

He snorted. I frowned. Now, that was unnecessary. I knew how to aim and fire a lasgun just fine. Perhaps I lacked a bit of combat experience, and perhaps that was an understatement, but I was still indignant about him calling me useless. "For your information, I do know how to use a gun," I told him. When he smirked and the Daemonette giggled, I only grew more incensed. "I do! I've just never had to use it in a combat situation! So-"

"Ah," the youth interrupted, suddenly right beside me and slinging a thin-but-muscular arm around my shoulders, "but that's the only thing that matters, isn't it? A gun is useless unless it's firing on flesh – just like a blade is useless unless it's biting on flesh. That's what they're meant for, you know." He shrugged, clapped me on the shoulder and moved off, soon followed by the two Space Marines and the still-giggling Daemonette. I turned and watched them go, until the kid spun around and spread his arms. "Well? Grab your gun, snatch the pistol and chainsword off that commissar, find some rations and get going!"

I started. That was not at all what I was expecting. "You want me to… come with you?" My question was met with that broad grin of his, which was oddly reassuring in spite of his mouthful of fangs.

"Yeah, of course! The more the merrier, or so I think. Thurion might disagree, but he's just grumpy that way." This earned him a snort from the spiky marine, who hadn't slowed at all. The other Space Marine and the Daemonette, however, had stopped and were looking back at me expectantly.

I quickly weighed my options. I could stay here, surrounded by the corpses of fallen Guardsmen – most of whom I didn't know – and wait for more orks to arrive and finish the job, or I could tag along with a band of Chaos-worshiping heretics until I found some way off this blasted planet. The very name 'Armatura' now seemed to embody misfortune and insanity. All I could do was hope that an Imperial ship would come along and rescue me before I died… or worse. What could be worse? Looking at this merry band of heretics, I could think of a few things.

Then again, it might not turn out _that_ bad.

I stuffed several of my fallen comrades' rations and ammo packs into a backpack, shouldered my lasrifle, and finally, with shaking hands, pried the chainsword and bolt pistol from the commissar's cold dead fingers, trying not to retch all the while. The viscera of orks and my fellow Guardsmen strewn all around me made that task difficult, but I managed somehow, retreating with a gasp and clipping the chainsword to my hip. Wow, it was heavy…

"Ready?" The youth asked.

I held up my hands. "Wait a moment. There's something I've got to do." My hands and shoulders shaking, I quietly recited the Litany of Devotion, along with a prayer to the Emperor for the souls of the fallen guardsmen. Followed by a tiny, selfish prayer for myself, asking him to forgive me for what I was about to do. I knew I was a terrible guardsman and would be considered a traitor by most Imperials now, agreeing to band together with heretics – even if it only was to save my skin. In that moment, though, there was no one to judge me that way, and I decided that I'd rather be a terrible guardsman than a dead one. At least, that's how I thought then. I still pray for forgiveness every day.

I turned to the young man and nodded, trying my best to look determined. "I'm ready." With a start, I realized the others were already a long way away, tramping off into the dust. Only the red-headed youth was still there, waiting patiently. His grin showed no signs of disappearing, and I resigned myself then and there to getting used to those spiked teeth of his. I'd have to, if I was to stick with them for any length of time.

"Got a name, Guardsman?" he asked, as the two of us started off into the wasteland of Armatura.

"I'm…" I hesitated, then realized I had no reason to withhold my name. "Fenwick. Thomas Fenwick."

"Well then, a pleasure to meet you, Thomas Fenwick," he exclaimed, snatching my hand in his and giving it a vigorous shake. "I'm Marrlë."


	2. Our Merry Band of Heretics

It had been a week, give or take a few days. It was difficult to tell when a day ended and another began on Armatura. I knew that if this went on for much longer, I'd lose track of time altogether. I once asked the others how to tell the time here, and only Damantin could give a coherent shot at teaching me; unfortunately, there were so many numbers and unfamiliar terms in his explanation that I eventually just started nodding at his words without understanding. All I knew was that sometimes the sky was red, and other times it was less red.

Speaking of 'the others', at that point I'd introduced myself and been introduced to them. The five of us actually seemed to be the only non-orkoid life on the planet, as far as we could tell. I was already starting to get lonely, so I was… fortunate to have them there.

Marrlë, the young red-haired cultist with the chainaxe and the savage grin, was the closest thing the group had to a leader. How the Space Marines allowed this to happen, I can't truly say, but they seemed fine with it. Ever upbeat, boisterous and sanguine was he, especially when engaging in combat. With seemingly inexhaustible enthusiasm, he pointed us towards the horizon, encouraging us to walk onwards, and with weary amusement, the other three followed. I didn't think I had any right to be weary; I'd only been there for a week or so, whereas they… well, they'd been there longer.

Damantin was the Space Marine armoured in blue and gold. He spoke very quietly, and I'd never seen his face. He was patient – well, as patient as a Chaos Space Marine could be with an Imperial Guardsman. He took the time to explain the day-night cycle on this planet (however incomprehensibly), and while we walked, he sometimes told strange stories of times past, when he and his Battle-Brothers journeyed across the stars on Crusades both holy and unholy. He was one of the Thousand Sons, a legion said to have turned to Chaos during the Horus Heresy. Listening to his stories, though, I began to feel hints of sympathy towards him. The Thousand Sons didn't seem like evil monsters, from his recollections.

Thurion couldn't have been more different. The black-armoured Space Marine was a wall of ice, ignoring me altogether whenever he could. When he did address me, it was with such derision that I immediately wished he would return to his frigid silence. It was clear he would much prefer that I was dead, and that the other group members were all that was keeping him from making his wish a reality. He told no stories, but I surmised that he must have some reason for keeping himself shrouded in such darkness. Of course, this was only a guess; I knew very little of anything beyond the bare bones of the Imperial Guard and my own homeworld.

The Daemonette, "Rosie", was, well… lovely. It was astonishing: this fiend, spawned of the realm of Chaos, was nothing short of wonderful to me. She would quickly notice when my energy was flagging – inevitably, I would be the first one to get tired – and would ask Marrlë to stop and rest. She kept checking my wound to make sure I would be all right, in spite of the long walk. When I started to fall into despair at my predicament, she'd give me a smile, and… well, things would seem less awful. I wondered if the horrible truth of daemons I'd known all my life was nothing more than a fabrication.

Also, Rosie wasn't her real name, but she insisted we call her that. So we did.

She was the one who discovered me during one of our rests, sitting a short ways away from the others as I was wont to do, lying against my pack of rations and scribbling away in a small leather-bound notebook.

"What are you up to, Fen?" I started at the sudden candied voice in my ear, and then exhaled at length. She was _very_ quiet when she wanted to be.

"It's Fenwick," I reminded her, rather uncomfortable at having a daemon address me so casually – or address me at all. "And, well… I found this notebook in one of the ration packs. I guess one of the guardsmen was planning on keeping a record of his time here." My countenance darkened, and when Rosie extended a claw to comfort me, I flinched despite myself. She looked a little hurt, and I knew I'd feel guilty later, but right now I was just filled with cold anger. My future with the guard had been taken out back and shot, and now I, always a loyal servant of the Imperium, was traveling with a band of Chaos adherents. One of whom was an actual daemon, and she was trying to make me feel better.

This was all wrong!

So caught up in self-piteous anger was I that I didn't notice her claw pulling the book out of my grasp until she was already holding it up to her eyes, intently reading what I'd written. I quickly reached for it, but she spun away, much faster than I could follow. The others looked up, no doubt wondering why the Guardsman was chasing the Daemonette around. I heard Thurion wonder aloud if I'd finally fallen victim to her beguilement, which only made me angrier. Me, fall prey to a daemon's suggestion? While the Emperor's light still burned in my heart, it would never happen; this I vowed as I pursued that lithe, prancing form across the barren earth.

Eventually, with a laugh and a twirl, she deftly tripped me, and I went sprawling facefirst onto the ground. I had just enough time to roll onto my back before her claws pinned me to the earth, her other pair of arms busying itself with turning the book's pages. "Oh, how adorable. Come see, Marrlë!"

Now intrigued, the redhead headed over and leaned down to peer at the book over Rosie's shoulder. "What is it?"

Rosie scoffed. "Can't you read?"

"No."

"Here, let me see." Damantin loomed over Rosie's other shoulder, bending his massive frame down to get a closer look. "…A journal of some kind."

"A journal?" Predictably, Marrlë grinned. Everything made him grin. "That's grand! Keeping a record of the stuff we've done, you clever Guardie."

I might have answered that, if I wasn't busy squirming and wriggling under Rosie to try and escape. Eventually giving up, I glared up at them. "Yeah, it's a journal. I thought I'd keep track of what's happened since I landed here, so I don't go insane and start thinking it's all a Warp-spawned nightmare – which, by the way, I'm still not convinced it isn't. Now can I have it back?"

Rosie pressed the book to my chest as Marrlë laughed and started to walk away. "You're likely to go insane anyway, my friend, what with the company you're keeping now." I reached up to grab the journal, but Rosie kept me pinned, smiling mischievously. I frowned up at her in confusion.

"Are you going to let me up, or-"

I was abruptly cut off as she darted down to press her lips against mine. My eyes flew wide, and heat rushed through my body, sudden and cloying. My vision grew hazy from the ecstasy overwhelming my every sense; this was absolute bliss. Those lips parted slightly to allow her long, barbed tongue to flick across my teeth once, before she pulled back, leaving me dazed and breathless. My eyes focused just enough to see her sultry look of satisfaction.

"You're wound up so tight, _Fenwick_ ," she purred, stroking my cheek with a chitinous claw as if to remind me of what she had just done to me. "Loosen up a little."

With that, she rose and sashayed off after Marrlë, leaving me lying on the ground, staring blankly up at the sky. She kissed me. A Daemonette had kissed me. I'd never felt so horrified and pleased at once. Forcing myself to remember that it had only felt good because of her beguiling aura, I staggered to my feet, heart thrumming like a demented drummer. Staring at the others as they concluded their rest and prepared to move on, I knew that things were not as simple as they had seemed. Only Thurion seemed to mind at all that I was an Imperial. Marrlë was too happy to care, Damantin was just nice, and Rosie was… I buried my face in my hands, unsure what to think of Rosie at all. This was all so frakked. I needed a bit of silence to clear my head.

"You coming?"

I didn't have to look at him to know that Marrlë was still grinning. Whether or not he'd seen Rosie kiss me, he was quite happy about the journal. As I walked up alongside him, he elbowed me in the ribs – thankfully, not the broken ones. "You know, I think it's great that you're keeping a journal."

"Oh, really?" I kept my eyes on the ground. The ground made sense, unlike everything else around me.

"Yeah, for sure! I probably won't be able to remember all the things that happen here, so I'm glad someone's keeping track. Be sure to tell it like it is, yeah?" He nudged me again, and despite myself, I found his enthusiasm creeping infectiously into me.

"Yeah, okay."


	3. Skirmish

Considering the state of affairs at large on Armatura, it was astonishing that we didn't run into trouble sooner. Though the ground was flat and, for the most part, barren, the heavy clouds of dust blowing across the land ensured that we could never see nearly as far as we might like. Conversely, this had the benefit of making us difficult to detect. Well, beneficial to me, at least.

From the way he paced during our rests, axe forever clenched in his hand, I could tell that Marrlë was craving battle, and Thurion was even touchier than usual. Their restlessness was making me worry, as even by then, nearly a week and a half after meeting them, I wasn't sure that those two wouldn't suddenly decide I was worthy of their blades after all. The bloodthirsty excitement that crossed both their faces when Damantin suddenly declared that a squad of Boyz were coming our way at once relieved me and worried me further. That, and my total lack of confidence in my own abilities.

On our way to Armatura, there had been much joking among the conscripts about how we would be the audience to the Guard's mopping up of the orks. Much of this talk was complemented with passages from the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer, which had much to say about the orks. Most notably, that they were small, weak, and would likely die from a single las shot.

As the Armatura Welcoming Party had very quickly and violently proven, the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer was, to put it mildly, full of it.

As this announcement was made and Marrlë hungrily revved his chainaxe, I looked down at the lasrifle in my hands, my worry plainly etched on my face. This weapon was described in the Primer to be one of the greatest weapons ever deployed, an instrument of the Emperor's Justice. Barely over a week ago, I'd had the eye-opening pleasure of witnessing the Emperor's Justice fizzling harmlessly against a horde of orks as they hacked apart the Infantrymen this book was addressed to.

"You're going to use that?" Damantin asked, his helmeted head tilting inquisitively. I looked up at him and shrugged helplessly. He pointed to my hip, and my eye followed his finger down to the bolt pistol resting there. "If you want to kill efficiently, that's the tool for the job."

"Um… I actually haven't trained with pistols much," I mumbled. In fact, 'hadn't trained at all' would be closer to the truth. He shrugged and turned his helmet to watch Marrlë and Thurion storming off towards the source of the distant 'WAAAGH's pervading the air. They were growing louder by the minute, and my throat was getting dry.

A pair of hands squeezed my shoulders, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned to see Rosie laughing at my reaction, and was about to demand just what was wrong with her when she drew close, brushing my cheek with a soft hand. "If you're in trouble, just call my name. Okay, Fen?" Before I could answer, she wove around me and sprinted after Marrlë and Thurion.

"You're not going with them?" I asked Damantin, who stood still, observing the dust clouds shifting. Soon, the orks would emerge from the closest one, and then… I didn't know. My fear was that it would be a repeat of my last experience with combat; then again, two Space Marines, a daemon, and… whatever Marrlë was, were a different case altogether than the untested and disorganized group I had landed here with.

Damantin shook his head. "I'm no blademaster, Fenwick – not like the others. Besides," –and here I could hear a hint of pride creep into his voice- "my talents lie elsewhere." Raising his hands, he uttered a word, one that chilled my blood and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The dust coiled and dispersed, revealing the charging squad of Boyz within, each one yelling fit to shake the earth, choppas held high as they bore down on Marrlë, Thurion and Rosie. I gulped; they outnumbered us five to one.

Then lightning sprang from Damantin's outstretched hand, and three of the orks tumbled to the ground as blackened husks. I was suddenly a lot more confident about our odds.

As I watched in awe, Marrlë leapt into the air, bringing his weapon roaring down on the lead ork Boy, who raised its choppa to block it. A fatal mistake; the chainaxe's serrated teeth dug straight through the choppa and onwards into the ork beneath, who had just enough time to squeal before those whirling teeth carved it from skull to crotch. The red-haired Khornate landed in a shower of blood, and with a cry of savage joy let loose on the Boyz who turned to face him.

Rosie was next into the fray, outpacing Thurion on their way there. Her deadly claws, which I noticed she carefully kept clean of dust, now opened stomachs and clipped off heads with all the grace of a professional dancer. I heard her musical laugh ring out as she twirled and leapt among the orks, sudden spurts of blood signalling where she had been a second ago.

Thurion, though last to engage, made up for it by exploding a Boy's head with a well-aimed bolt and checking another to the dirt with his armoured shoulder. His boot pulped the grounded ork's head, not slowing him in the slightest as he drove against the apparent leader of this squad, a hulking Nob with an armoured jaw, bulging muscles and a power klaw accompanied by a chain-choppa. The Nob roared as his klaw met with Thurion's crackling blade, and brought his chain-choppa around to sever the Space Marine's sword arm; this was met by the marine hammering his bolt pistol down on the flat of the weapon, knocking it off its course. Instead, it skimmed over Thurion's side, and he responded by emptying his bolt pistol straight into the Nob's face. By the end of it, the big ork's head was a bloody paste spattered all over the Boyz behind him, all eager to test their mettle against the monster in the black armor.

Between Marrlë's berserk onslaught, Rosie's graceful dance of death, Thurion's efficient butchery and Damantin's lightning barrage, I was feeling quite ineffectual.

Nevertheless, I contributed the only way I knew how, putting my lasrifle to my shoulder, staring down the sights and firing into the fray, trying not to hit my allies. The key word being trying. A poorly aimed las shot sizzled into one of Thurion's pauldrons, and I hoped desperately that he'd fail to notice. It certainly hadn't slowed him down at all – in fact, it had barely made any mark on his armour – but Damantin gave me a sideways glance that, despite displaying nothing more than his helmet's habitual scowl, made me feel small anyways. With a grimace, I continued firing. A small smile touched my face when a Boy, rushing Marrlë from behind, howled and stopped, a laser having burned out his eye. My smile vanished when he charged me instead.

I froze, looking over at Damantin. The sorcerer had walked ahead and was now chanting more Words; several of the orks were falling to their knees and gibbering, no doubt having their minds assaulted by psychic energies. It was too bad the ork racing towards me wasn't one of those afflicted. I fired my lasrifle again and again, but my shots seemed to either go wide or strike at its thick midsection, which only made it angrier.

It was on me a moment later, roaring furiously as it battered the lasrifle away and punched me square in the face, sending me tumbling to the earth. The world seemed to slow for a moment as my head hit the ground, and I rolled to the side as the Boy's choppa slammed into the ground where my face had just been. I was pretty sure I'd lost a tooth or two from that punch, but that didn't matter now. I yelled and scrambled backwards as the ork advanced, hatred blazing in its one good eye. "Look wot you'z zoggin' done ta me eye, 'umie!" it roared, choppa swinging wildly. I scrambled back further, even as it pursued me. I almost called for help, but realized that if I did, I'd never live it down. The heretics had saved me once, and I was determined to hold my own this time.

I remembered the bolt pistol at my side, and, wrapping my fingers around the handle, yanked it from my hip and fired. The recoil jolted my hand, but well worth it, it seemed; the ork stared stupidly at the bleeding stump of an arm that was left behind, my shot having blown most of it clean off. I cursed my shaking hand, unable to take aim properly. Pistols were not my forte.

Before I could shoot again, the choppa came around once more, and I cried out as it knocked the pistol from my grasp. I couldn't believe it – the thing could keep going like this after having its arm blown off?! I almost managed to scramble to my feet when the ork slashed again, and I ducked. I felt a sharp pain on the side of my head, but I ignored it for the time being. I had more important things to deal with.

As I looked upon this ork's piggish visage, righteous anger pushed my fear aside and filled my body with another kind of adrenaline, a kind I didn't know I had. Seemingly by instinct alone, I pulled the chainsword from my hip and without a moment's hesitation, drove it right into that ork's roaring maw. Its inhuman eyes widened in surprise, immediately before I pressed down on the throttle, and the blade howled, bursting through the back of the ork's head with a spatter of gore.

The xeno's scream was almost as loud as that of the weapon piercing it. Its meaty hand dropped the choppa and came up to clamp around my arm. Pain flooded that limb from the tremendous pressure, but I gritted my teeth and thrust the chainsword deeper. Eventually, the ork's eyes glazed over, its bloodied, shredded tongue lolling out of its mouth, and I hauled the chainsword free, letting my conquered foe fall to the ground. The anger that had fuelled me in that critical moment was gone, and I found I was breathing heavily. A bruise was already beginning to form where that ork had grabbed me, and I felt warmth trickling down the side of my head. The chainsword suddenly felt very heavy in my hand.

Marrlë came up to me, soaked from head to toe in ork blood. I couldn't see a scratch on him, but that was probably due to all the gore making it hard to see his skin. It wasn't an exaggeration: his entire body was drenched, to the point where his hair was dripping with the stuff.

"Are you all right?" He asked, and I saw genuine concern reflected in his expression. I started to say 'I'm fine,' but caught him looking at the side of my head. With a frown, I lifted my hand, and found my earlobe – and nothing more. My eyes widened as the pain suddenly kicked in. I bit my lip and winced, clapping a hand to the bleeding remains of my ear. That only seemed to make the pain worse. I could faintly hear Marrlë calling for Rosie, felt her gentle hands on my shoulders. I could barely register it all. Somewhere in the confusion I dazedly reached for my lasrifle, battered away by the ork. It was only then that I realized that the middle and ring fingers on my right hand were missing.

That was the moment I lost consciousness.


	4. Gorelady

I will admit, I freaked out for a while – even more than I did during the first few days of traveling with this merry band of heretics. They may seem like minor injuries in retrospect, but between the broken ribs, the lost fingers, a missing tooth and a severed ear, I was having serious doubts about my chances of leaving Armatura with my own head still attached. The idea that Damantin might summon some daemon to possess my corpse did nothing to reassure me. When we stopped to rest, I'd often find myself somberly staring at the cloth-bound stumps between my right hand's index and pinky fingers, and glancing periodically at the dust-choked sky. I still didn't really think that I'd see anything good descending towards us, but I could hope.

That's all a guardsman can do, I think, besides hold the line: hope that someone shows up to reinforce you, before you become an ork's krumpin' implement.

It was on one of these occasions, when the wind was a bit colder than usual, that Marrlë came to sit by me. I was a short way away from the group, having found my own little rock to sit on and lament my fate, when the crunch of spike-soled boots on the hard earth alerted me to the Khornate's approach. Not the clanking movement of power armour, or Rosie's silent tread; thus, I knew who it was without looking. His voice only confirmed it.

"You're not joining us? Ork stew's cooking."

Ah, yes – ork stew. Though the rations I'd pillaged from my fellows served their purpose, being numerous and mostly nutritious, they were maddeningly bland – especially after a week or more of eating nothing but them. Eventually, I had finally given in and tried Marrlë's ork stew, which he swore up and down was great for clearing your head and filling your stomach. While I couldn't vouch for the head-clearing aspect of it, I did find myself pleasantly surprised. Orks, when cleaned and properly prepared, tasted not unlike mushrooms; Damantin explained that this was because they were, in fact, a type of fungus. This revelation would have boggled my mind a week before, but at this point, I had become very good at just taking things in stride.

It also turned out that Chaos did funny things to one's metabolism. I was wondering how Marrlë and the others managed to remain at peak performance while eating and drinking so little, and Chaos's influence was the only explanation I could find. In that respect, it was a small comfort that I still had to bear the inconvenience of lugging around the rations on my back. I needed to eat regularly, and that, along with the lack of strange whispers in my head or teeth growing around my navel, told me I was still human.

"I..." I trailed off, deliberating between joining them and partaking in the appetizing food, or staying out here and wallowing in misery. "I'm not really hungry. Don't know why, just sort of feel like sitting out here and thinking. By myself."

"Hmm." Marrlë wasn't having any of that. With a grunt, he plopped down beside me, resting his monstrous chainaxe's head on the ground and propping its haft up in the crook of his arm. The tasseled end of the axe's handle hung rather close to my face, and I irritably pushed it away. Marrlë glanced up at me, and for a moment I thought I'd made him angry, but he only looked thoughtful. "Okay, what's really the matter, Fen? You've seemed off lately. As in, more than usual."

That was the other thing. No matter how much I insisted, Marrlë and Rosie would always shorten my name to Fen. Even after giving them permission to call me Thomas, they persisted. The worst part may have been that it was growing on me.

As it was, his question and observation irritated me further. Were they really so oblivious to my plight? I had been told all my life that the pawns of Chaos were diabolical masterminds, who'd twist your thoughts and steal your soul as soon as look at you. Yet here I was, not twenty feet away from a group of them – and they were making stew and engaging in civil discussion about their next move. Even the daemon was acting incredibly nice. I felt deceived for all the wrong reasons.

"You really don't see anything odd about _this_?" I gestured back at the two Space Marines and the Daemonette hovering over the pot near the fire. Looking back at it made me wonder once more if this wasn't all some drug-induced fantasy, from which I'd awaken to a yelling commissar and the end of a bolt pistol in my face.

Marrlë turned his head and peered back at the others, looking up at my gesturing hand and then back at them, seemingly unsure about what I meant. "…I suppose Thurion looks slightly less grim than usual."

"No, that's not it at all! Don't you see? It's…" I searched for the right words to express how backwards all of this was, failed, and resorted to despairingly burying my face in my hands. Seeing this, Marrlë gave me a sympathetic rap on the elbow.

"There, there, Fen. I understand."

I parted my fingers just enough for one eye to glare down at him. "Do you?"

"Sure." He sighed and looked up at the dust clouds. "You're isolated from everything you know, stuck on an unfamiliar world, and you're not sure you'll get off it alive. I've thought about it as we've walked, and I talked about it with Rosie. Slaaneshi daemons are very insightful when it comes to emotions, you know."

I twitched; that didn't sound reassuring at all. Marrlë continued, oblivious to my reaction.

"She agreed with me in thinking that you might be feeling lonely."

I blinked. They'd manage to wrong-foot my expectations again, it seemed.

"I mean, you must've known at least a few of those guardsmen you came here with. To have them all cut down like that must've been awful. I know I would be devastated if my friends were killed."

By now, my mouth was hanging open as I stared at the pensive Khornate. I managed to croak, "Are all heretics this…"

"This?" He turned his crimson gaze on me. I struggled to find the word I was looking for; this time, I came close to succeeding.

"…Nice?"

At that, Marrlë threw back his head and laughed uproariously, thumping the ground with his chainaxe. The others raised their heads from the pot and looked over to see what he found so funny, but soon dismissed it and returned to their own discussion. He continued chuckling for a while, long enough to make me uncomfortable, and looked back up at me with a smirk. "Not at all. In fact, most would've either murdered you outright or turned you into some Warp monstrosity. If that's what was troubling you, I won't deny we're not your average Chaos crew." He shrugged nonchalantly, leaning back against my sitting rock. "I really don't care about the Imperium one way or another. Damantin never considered himself a traitor. Thurion has had enough of his Legion's shenanigans, and Rosie's… Rosie's just weird." Even I had to crack a smile at that. So the things I'd been told about Chaos were true, it seemed; this band of renegades was just another kind of insane.

Marrlë returned my smile and put a hand on the haft of his chainaxe. I looked down at the weapon, and for the first time, really examined it. It had a long handle that curved slightly forward near the end, while the length of the haft was covered in tightly-wound cloth and bandages of many dirty colours, presumably to create a firm grip. It looked rather odd, to be quite honest. The head of the weapon was large and heavy-looking enough that I wondered if I could lift it at all, let alone wield it like Marrlë did. The thing was lightning in his hands, and watching him fight often made me wonder just how human he really was.

"You're wondering how I met her?"

I started at the sudden question, and remained staring at him in confusion until I realized Marrlë meant the axe. In fact, I hadn't been thinking that, but I nodded anyway, since I was now interested in hearing about it.

"Well, it all started many years ago. I was on a raid with a large group of Berzerkers, you see, and one of the biggest and strongest of them was a fellow named Khârn." I nodded. I thought I could predict where this was going. "So Khârn's got this amazing chainaxe, you see? Huge, sharp, made a noise like a thousand screaming daemons when he let it rip. Named Gorechild." I nodded once more, still fairly certain of how things would proceed.

"So naturally, I tell Khârn: 'Hey Khârn, that's a pretty amazing chainaxe you've got there,' and he says 'thanks, I think so too.' And then I ask him, 'say, Khârn, mind letting me take that thing for a spin once we make planetfall?' and his response is to slam me into the wall by my throat, damn near breaking my spine, and roar, 'no, it's mine, you can't have it.' Thankfully, though, he calms down and becomes somewhat reasonable, and goes on to tell me that, while he's not lending me his chainaxe, he does know of a certain shrine on the planet we're going to, and if I go there and make a bloodbath out of the whole affair, Khorne might consider upgrading my current gear."

I was amazed by the nonchalance with which he described these things. Needless to say, I was not at all prepared for what he'd tell me next.

"We make planetfall, the lot of us. The Berzerkers and Khornate cultists head off to murder and pillage in one direction, and I head off in another. Khârn wishes me luck. Fine character, that Khârn. I'm sure you'd like him."

I was sure I'd find him absolutely terrifying. For the sake of moving things along, I nodded and motioned for him to continue.

"So I head off along the trail Khârn designated, and wouldn't you know it, it's guarded by Sisters of Battle! Not regular priests like I was expecting. Imagine my relief – now I wouldn't have to slaughter a bunch of unarmed old men to get the fine axe I was craving."

My eye twitched involuntarily.

"So they see me coming down the road, crimson hair and crimson eyes and crimson clothes and crimson axe, and immediately open fire. Clever Sisters, they knew I was a cultist right away!" He chuckled. I didn't. "And wouldn't you know it, they've got bolters. I dive for cover, but my cover is blown to pieces pretty fast. I know if I don't think of something quick, these Sisters are going to mince me in no time flat. So I do the only thing I can, and chuck a grenade at them."

His tone grew apologetic, as if I cared what method he had used to defeat the Sisters. "You have to understand, I needed that axe, right? I was prepared to go to just about any length to get that awesome axe Khârn promised me."

"Right," I said dazedly. I was beginning to get the impression that Marrlë, however insightful, wasn't all that bright.

"So I peek over the ruins of the little wall I'd hidden behind, and the Sisters got fried real good by the grenade. I hurry over, nab a chainsword and bolt pistol, and I head into the shrine. As soon as I go in, it's Chaos!"

"Yeah, I can imagine," I muttered.

"No, I mean there's two possessed Sisters, screaming heresy and unloading their bolters at me. Before I'm through with them, more Sisters pour in behind me, and I'm pretty sure I'm done for. Right on cue, a Warp portal opens up, and a bunch of Bloodletters come running out, waving their hellblades and roaring fit to burst my eardrums. The firefight devolves into a melee, and I decide, frak it, and just let myself go."

I could picture the scene in my head: Sisters of Battle – power-armoured zealots with big guns – throwing down with Khornate daemons, and Marrlë going absolutely insane in the middle of it all. It must've seemed like heaven to him. It was at this moment, I believe, that I began to get a solid read on what kind of person Marrlë was. Simple, forthright, and, as long as you weren't his enemy, companionable.

"The next few minutes go by in a haze of blood and bolter fire. I hear screaming and flesh tearing all around me, and I'm not sure who it is I'm ripping into with my chainsword. I'm just firing the bolt pistol at random, and I run out of ammunition quickly, so I two-hand the chainsword and take my rage to another level. By the time my vision clears, I'm standing on a small pile of bodies, and I see the daemon corpses trickling away into the Warp. There's blood and guts everywhere – painting the walls, covering the floor, all over me. And that's when I hear it."

I leaned forward, interested despite myself. The graphic details made my stomach turn, but I genuinely did want to know how this story ended.

"This low, menacing laughter in the back of my mind, deep and so, so powerful." Marrlë shivered at the memory. I'd never seen him do that; this must have had a profound effect on him. "I could sense that whatever was touching my mind could crush me like a gnat if it wanted to. But instead, I felt… congratulation. There's no other way to describe it; congratulation, filling my being down to my very bones. On the altar, at the far end of the shrine, she appeared – divinely beautiful, violently serene, promising me glory beyond my wildest dreams."

He surprised me again when he reached up to wipe a tear from his eye. I snorted inwardly – of course this would be the sort of memory to make a Khornate emotional. Once he was done, he smiled and ran his hand over the axehead. I was probably mistaken, but I could've sworn I heard the chainaxe purr in contentment.

"I walked over and looked down at her, and it was love at first sight. Everything about her entranced me, and after all the things we've done together, I'd like to think I've earned her affection, too. From that moment on, we've been inseparable – me and My Lady of Gore. That's her name." His eyes gleamed, both with residual tears and glowing pride. "In honour of Khârn's axe, I call her Gorelady."

"And that," he finished, "is how I met my axe."

I leaned back, observing Marrlë in a new light. Somehow, he now seemed to me at once more and less human. That story of his had given me a better perspective of who he was, and the way he thought and acted was both entirely believable and completely alien. I wasn't quite sure of what to make of it in that moment, but of one thing I was absolutely sure: I was glad he wasn't my enemy.

As he stood up and brushed off his pants, he grinned and offered me a hand. From this close, I realized that his sharp teeth were actually metal spikes, and the tips of his fingers were affixed with augmetic claws. Yet, out of all the things I had learned about him, these seemed to me among the least of his inhuman attributes.

Mirroring his grin, I took the proffered hand with my bandaged, three-fingered one and pulled myself to my feet. The chill wind across the wastes bit deeper now that I was standing, which made the fire look quite a bit more inviting. "You know, I actually might be hungry for stew after all."

"See? I knew you'd come around!"


	5. Cover Fire

"Is this truly necessary?" Thurion asked, annoyance plain in his deep voice.

"It is," Damantin affirmed flatly. "It is necessary, not only for Fenwick, but for all of us. Thus far, we have all been able to hold our own in combat despite our disorganization. Now, things are different. A human is among us, and we must make up for his fragility by improving our tactical approach to engagement."

"Hey, that's not fair!" Marrlë protested. "I'm human too!"

"Marrlë, dear, for all intents and purposes, you're about as human as I am." Rosie smirked, crossing her slender arms while her crab-clawed ones snapped idly at the air.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He scoffed, to which Damantin sighed.

"Meandering argumentation will only slow this whole business down," he said. For a near-whisper, his voice was remarkably authoritative. "Marrlë, Thurion and Rosie, the three of you will start in front of us and gradually fan out as you cut through the opposition. Meanwhile, Fenwick and I will stand further back at either end of you. Depending on the emergent tide of battle, we will either fire into the gaps between you as they widen, or cover your retreat by aiming for the side we are positioned at, so that you aren't overwhelmed on either end."

I raised my eyebrows, realizing the logic in this strategy. It wasn't terribly complicated, but it seemed effective in theory. Of course, we had yet to try it out, but it appeared sound nonetheless. I could see myself doing as he'd said.

"Fenwick."

Hearing Damantin's hiss addressed to me, I looked up into that inscrutable helmet of his. "Yes?" The impulse to add 'sir' to the end of that hit me hard. I realized that if I were speaking to an actual loyalist Space Marine, the appropriate address would've been 'my lord', but nevertheless, the idea that I had almost spoken to a heretic as if he were my superior gave me pause. Still, just speaking to Damantin, I would never have guessed he was a traitor marine unless told as much. He was wholly unlike Thurion – tolerant, patient, and radiating an almost unsettling serenity. If he weren't a heretic, I was sure that he would have both my respect and complete trust. As it was, he was getting dangerously close to earning those anyway.

"Last time we engaged in combat, your performance was… spectacular to behold, but in truth, it was less than ideal." He managed to say this without actually sounding admonishing, but I still felt a pang of shame. It was true. Besides aiming (roughly) at the enemy, I'd had no idea what I was doing.

"We are going to fix that today," he told me, and I perked up, repressing a hopeful smile. Heretic or no, I couldn't believe my luck. I was going to receive a marksmanship lesson from a Space Marine!

"Oi, why can't I teach him? I can actually hold a lasgun without it looking like a child's toy." Marrlë had come to the rescue. For a moment, I despaired, seeing the unique opportunity slipping away. Damantin seemed on the verge of answering, but it was Thurion who responded first.

"Because, Khornate, you couldn't hit a Land Raider if it were about to roll right over you," the spike-covered marine jeered, and I winced. Though I doubted Marrlë truly cared, considering his preferred method of engagement, I still felt sorry for him. Irrepressible as always, the Khornate simply snorted and waved the retort off. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I heard a chuckle echo from within Damantin's helmet.

"Be that as it may, we will finish practicing our formation first. Then, we shall eat, after which we will have our lesson in cover fire." No one disputed this, and soon we were back to the formation drill Damantin was putting us through. For once, Thurion was more reticent with his derision about the way things were proceeding, and I suspected he was secretly enjoying having some form of order, or perhaps something that reminded him of being a member of a Legion. In truth, I didn't know in the slightest how things worked among Space Marines, but I was sure organized drilling was an important part of their lives.

Once the drilling was over, the others rested, and Damantin sat with me while I ate my rations. Ork stew wasn't on the menu that day, and wouldn't be until we ran into another squad of Boyz. Until then, I surmised they would be able to stave off whatever hunger Chaos hadn't robbed them of.

As I ate, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. The Chaos sorcerer seemed distracted in his spare time, often staring aimlessly off into space. I could never tell if he was simply zoning out, or if he was navigating such complex trains of thought that the world faded around him. Regardless, I found him intriguing, and I wondered how he had ended up on Armatura with the rest of the group. Resolving to ask him later, I finished eating, and was about to get up when he stopped me.

"Take your pack," he said, motioning at the bag of rations and ammunition I carried. Before I could ask why, he enlightened me: "In an actual engagement, you'd be carrying the pack. It only makes sense that you should learn to shoot while bearing it."

That made plenty of sense, at least to me. I hoisted the pack onto my back and slipped my arms through the straps, lasrifle in hand. Giving me a curt nod, which was less than subtle thanks to the headdress on his helmet, the Thousand Son rose to his full eight feet in height and started off across the wasteland. I was quick to follow, briefly glancing back at the others. Marrlë and Rosie were watching us go, while Thurion, sombre as ever, seemed to have entered a staring contest with the ground. The Daemonette waved, and before I could think, I waved back. That earned me a smile, and I turned to follow Damantin before they could see me blush. Daemon or no, that smile almost made up for the lack of direct sunlight on Armatura.

The sorcerer led me to a crude setup of sorts; he appeared to have found two large rocks and stacked the one on top of the other, which resulted in them being roughly the same height as your average ork. I questioned him about it, to which he shrugged nonchalantly, citing the notable lack of trees as the reason for us having to resort to this. It looked quite inconvenient and vague as a target to me, and I was beginning to have my doubts. Then, he asked me to close my eyes, and uttered a Word of Power.

When I opened them again, there was an ork standing where the rocks had been. I yelped and aimed my lasgun, ready to let loose, when I heard the Thousand Son chuckle. An illusion, he explained, and I at once felt relieved and quite silly. In my defence, the ork looked real. It was even breathing. The only discrepancy, I found, was that it made no noise. Orks, at least in my experience, are not quiet.

Nevertheless, I took to firing with as much aplomb as I could, and Damantin quickly ascertained that my aim wasn't the problem. Even missing two fingers on my right hand, I could shoot just fine, since that wasn't my trigger hand; it was my lack of strategic aiming that was the issue, according to him. Apparently, this had been partially what had inspired him to create a formation for the group to fall into. This made me self-conscious once more, but he assured me that it was for the betterment of the group's survival chances, regardless of my presence. Slightly reassured, I continued shooting under his direction. He'd told me not to worry too much about ammunition, since I had close to a dozen reserve power packs in my backpack, so the rock in ork's clothing was spared no quarter.

Despite rarely if ever having handled a lasgun, Damantin was quick to grasp the weapon's strengths and shortcomings. My trusty lasrifle was – as guns went – reliable, had enormous ammo capacity, and little to no recoil, allowing me to fire rapidly without struggling to maintain a target. Its key weakness, as evidenced by the rather underwhelming marks it left on the ork-rock, was the lack of power behind each shot, something in which even the simple stubber surpassed the lasgun. Despite this, Damantin showed me how to make even this work to my advantage.

"Las shots are, in essence, rays of intense heat," he explained. This I knew already, but he was quick to expand upon it. "Ork technology is incredibly unstable, you see – it functions and is loosely held together only by their belief that it will work." That was shocking to me. I had no idea that the orks had such a potent trick up their sleeves, but recalling the almost primitive crudeness of their guns, I could believe it. "Their power of belief is just enough to keep their tools functioning – but only just, as they are liable to jam or overheat. The instability of it all is a key weakness, and one that you must learn to exploit."

"Orks themselves are very durable, able to weather far more damage than a human. This applies to las shots especially, which generally take multiple shots in the same spot to burn through an ork enough to really hurt it. In this way, you may in fact meet with better luck firing on the orks' weapons than the beasts themselves. A well-aimed las shot might go a decent way towards getting them to overheat. Failing that, the face is the only place liable to take serious damage from your gun."

That was eye-opening, to say the least. It all made sense, in a weird, orky way. That nugget of knowledge, of understanding my enemy, suddenly made them seem that much less threatening. A foe to be wary of, sure, but one that could be conquered with the proper tactical approach. Damantin must've seen the look of enlightenment on my face, because he gave me an approving nod and changed the shape of the illusion.

"What you're seeing now," he said, "is a Mekboy. These are the orks who slap together those crude constructs and weapons of theirs. Now, if you look closely, you'll notice it is carrying what they call a Stikkbomm – an oversized grenade."

I was pretty sure I understood. "If I see one of those – aim for it?"

"Precisely." The Space Marine nodded. "The same extends to all explosives. If they carry no such explosives, simply aim for whatever gun they're holding." The image shifted to an armoured Nob carrying a twin-linked shoota. "You know where to shoot, Fenwick. Begin."

For the next half hour or so, I practiced shooting at the guns and any unstable pieces of machinery Damantin's illusions happened to be carrying. About once every minute, he would change the shape of the illusion, from a simple Boy, to a Weirdboy, to a Nob, to a Mekboy, and seemingly everything in between. Damantin made me change positions every few minutes to create a different shooting angle, made me practice a measured retreat while firing, and by the end of it, was making the orks actually shift around, to give me moving targets. By then, I was feeling much better about myself. I was in the midst of taking apart a Flash Git's snazzgun when the sorcerer asked, "What do you think of Rosie?"

The lasrifle nearly slipped out of my hands. I scrambled to catch it, trying to collect myself, and looked at him in surprise. "I… I don't know what you mean," I stammered, hoping that it wasn't what I thought it was.

"It is plain to see," he elaborated, his voice remaining ever gentle and calm. This did nothing to reassure me as I stood there shuffling my feet. "Though perhaps it would be a stretch to say you have developed a romantic interest in it-" My eyes widened in shock, and I started sputtering my agreement just before he continued: "You are, at the very least, attracted to it."

"It?" I couldn't help asking. Damantin sighed.

"Fenwick, you must understand – the thing that calls itself 'Rosie' is a daemon of Slaanesh. Luring the weak-willed to their doom via fatal attraction is their modus operandi." His fingers drummed on his armoured knee. "Granted, it is… unusual, in its demeanour and its curious acts of charity, but do _not_ be fooled. It would be vexing to me if I were to find that your mind had been lost in a haze of beguilement on its behalf."

My face fell, unable to meet his helmet's scowl. He had seen right through me, and now that I thought about it, Marrlë and the others probably had too. Odds were Rosie was, even now, smugly thinking I was on the verge of becoming her plaything. For some reason, though, I couldn't believe it. Part of it had to do with her being so unfalteringly nice and helpful to me thus far. Between that, my conversation with Marrlë and Damantin's tutoring, my views of Chaos had, if not been turned entirely on their head, then at least questioned.

"What about you, though?"

"What about me?" His tone of voice suggested he was taken aback. I wondered if I'd offended him, but I had to know.

"You're a Chaos sorcerer of the Thousand Sons. From what you've told me, the Thousand Sons are under Tzeentch's thumb, aren't they?" His nod prompted me to continue. "Why should I trust you, then? By your own logic, shouldn't you be trying to trick me into becoming some Chaos thing, or using me in some long-term nefarious plan?"

He was silent for a long moment, and once again I feared that I might have gone too far, until I heard him exhale and dip his head.

"You've surprised me," he said at last, and not for the first time I wished I could see his face. "In my experience, Guardsmen tend not to be paid enough to think beyond what lies at the end of their guns."

I was pretty sure that was grounds for me to get offended. Instead I crossed my arms and smirked. "Your experience with Guardsmen must be lacking, then, given that we're actually not paid at all. Anyways, I'm not a proper Guardsman yet, and the way things are shaping up, I don't know if I ever will be."

He laughed – quietly, as always, which I still found odd. "That is fair. Come, Fenwick – it is time you learn a little about the Chaos your Imperium so reviles."


	6. The Catch

Damantin's declaration had put me on edge, and not without reason. I wondered if this was what they'd been waiting for – that is, for me to show interest in their heresy, so they could take the opportunity to beat me over the head with the gospel of the Dark Gods. Nevertheless, my intrigue was genuine, so I followed him back to the rest spot, where Marrlë was busy explaining a unique feature on his chainaxe to a distracted Rosie and a bored Thurion. The Khornate didn't seem to mind that no one was really listening, content to ramble on about the throttle and the teeth and whatnot. Upon seeing us, he raised his hand in a cheery greeting, alerting the others to our approach. "Oi!" he called. "How was the shooting practice?"

"Fruitful," Damantin replied, "but we found ourselves discussing a topic both more pressing and more interesting than how to shoot an ork. Fenwick wants to know about the philosophies by which each of us live. Is that correct?" He looked at me, and while that hadn't quite been what I'd asked of him, I realized that hearing about that would probably answer my question anyway, so I nodded.

"Yeah, I would. That is, if everyone's, um, willing to share."

Rosie giggled, and my face flushed. I'd hoped not to come off as foolish, but now that I thought about it, I really didn't know much about any of them. Marrlë's story had given me some insight into who he was, but to my knowledge, Damantin was a quiet Thousand Sons sorcerer, Rosie was a suspiciously friendly Daemonette, and Thurion was a grumpy, oversized death machine in power armor. Now, with the prospect of learning about their personal philosophies hanging overhead, I found myself wanting to know about them. Who were they, really?

"I certainly would," Marrlë announced with his signature enthusiasm written all over his face and palpable in his voice.

"Me too," Rosie seconded, winking at me and quite unsubtly running her hands up her slender curves. "I'll tell you everything you need to know about the path of pleasure, Fen." Her voice was like syrup drizzled into my ears; it alone was enough to make my cheeks burn. Thurion snorted and crossed his arms, casually avoiding looking at me. It was clear he wouldn't be doing any sharing, which for once I was a little disappointed about.

"And, of course, I will speak as well." Damantin slowly sat down and motioned for me to do the same. I followed his lead, sitting cross-legged between him and Rosie, and looked around expectantly.

"I'll start!" Predictably, it was Marrlë volunteering to begin. His mouthful of iron teeth glinted as he flashed us all his signature grin before starting in earnest.

"I've been a servant of Khorne as far back as I can remember. I joined my first warband at twelve, and I've been fighting all over the sector ever since."

"You are still only a child, compared to me and Damantin," Thurion pointed out, making me wonder just how old they were – and how old Marrlë was.

The Khornate narrowed his eyes, but that iron-toothed grin held fast. "Be that as it may, I still consider myself rather successful as far as Khornate Berzerkers go-"

"You're a human. Berzerkers are Space Marines." Thurion again. I was beginning to get irritated, and apparently I wasn't the only one.

"Please, Thurion, let him proceed unhindered," Damantin said, and the powerful authority in his quiet voice seemed to be the key to getting the black-armoured Space Marine to refrain from commenting further. Marrlë nodded his thanks and continued.

"Yeah, so as I was saying, I consider myself a better-than-average servant of Khorne. The fact that most die within a few days of initiation helps quite a bit with that assessment, but I digress." He chuckled, and I actually found myself smiling. It was sort of funny, in a horribly morbid way. "So, the thing that most Khornates tend to forget about serving the Blood God is that he's not _only_ about making the blood flow. That is an important part of the whole business, but there's more to it than that." Oh? He certainly had my ear now, so to speak.

"Khorne is the god of bloodshed and wanton, excessive violence; this is true. At the same time, though, he demands certain things of his followers; the most well-known of which is honour. Sneaking up and stabbing your opponent in the back isn't honouring Khorne; that's Tzeentch's way of getting things done." Marrlë leered at Damantin, who shrugged, making no move to deny this. "Fighting in the name of Khorne is done up-front and honestly. Tactics, of course, go a long way in helping you win, and every good general is a tactician as well as a warrior. So many Khornates run straight into gunfire, screaming oaths and holding their axes high, and of course they're mowed down before they ever get close to the enemy." He shook his head admonishingly. "I guess they don't realize that you can't serve Khorne one bit if you die before entering the melee. That's not courage or honour – just idiocy."

"That's another thing: courage. There's nothing courageous about striking down a defenseless opponent. In that same vein, Khorne despises cowardice. Your commissars unwittingly get plenty of nods of approval when they kill craven soldiers, Fen. Sacrificing babies in his name – which a disturbing amount of Khornate cultists do – isn't going to get you any blessings. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"That… happens?" I gasped, filled with utter horror at this revelation. In response, a grim nod was given.

"Oh, yeah. Somewhere along the line, it seems like a lot of Khornate cults forgot what it is Khorne really asks for. It's not the blood itself – it's the glory of battle, and the blood that is spilled as a result of _that!_ " Marrlë made a chopping motion with his hand, as if to emphasize this. "I love fighting – every good Khornate does. But fighting is one thing, and butchery is another. I would like to think Khorne appreciates the former more." He shrugged, giving me a rueful smile. "But then, I suppose it really does depend on one's own interpretation. Most Khornates would've killed you, Fen, had they been in my position. But you weren't a coward, nor could you have given me a good fight. You were just-"

"-Weak," I finished, without a hint of bitterness. "I was weak. And now what? If I become strong, will you decide I'm worth killing then?"

Marrlë snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. We're friends, and friends means we'll fight beside one another. Of course, if you somehow end up _in front_ of me…"

We all laughed at that, except Thurion, who elected instead to sneer. I was surprised to find myself moved by Marrlë declaring that we were friends. Despite him being an unapologetic servant of a Dark God, I couldn't help but be glad that he thought of me that way. Even if the part about me winding up in front of him had only been half in jest…

"Shall I speak now?" Rosie asked, sensing that Marrlë had finished his piece. The Khornate shrugged and gestured for her to begin. As soon as she'd gotten the go-ahead, she turned her head to eye me, and wet her lips suggestively. With a nervous chuckle, I shifted away, and she responded by shifting closer.

"Slaanesh, as you all know, is the god of excess – pleasure, sensuality and debauchery are their realm of influence. Anything that heightens the senses and brings fulfillment to one's desires brings a smile to Slaanesh's face. For example…" Leaning towards me, she reached out and took my chin between her dainty fingers, gazing at me through half-lidded eyes as her face grew closer and closer. My senses were dimming by the second, and my heart had all but stopped in my chest, when Damantin came to my rescue.

"Don't badger the poor boy, Rosie. You don't have to shove your tongue down his throat to prove your point." Marrlë sniggered unabashedly at that. The Daemonette paused, inches from my lips, and feigned disappointment.

"Very well, if you insist…" She drew away from me, and the very real disappointment I felt was tempered with tremendous relief. Of everyone here, she inspired conflicting feelings in me like no other. I supposed that came with being a Daemonette. "Now, you must remember – Slaanesh is the god of excess, and encourages it wherever it arises in their own uniquely insidious way. However, their domain extends to all pleasure. From the very smallest things, from, say, drinking a bottle of quality amasec, to delicious lovemaking, to the unparalleled taste of victory – all of these exultations are in Slaanesh's name, whether attributed directly to them or not." She smiled at me, which by itself was enough to make my heart skip a beat. "You may be noticing a pattern, Fen."

"Y-yes," I stammered, forcibly collecting my thoughts. "Chaos, it's… universal, and, I don't know, what's the word…"

"Nuanced?" Damantin offered. I nodded.

"Yes. It's nuanced, and it seems like it encompasses everything in life, no matter how small." Rosie was positively beaming now, until I continued. "So what's the catch?"

The Daemonette swayed towards me. "There is no catch. It's all wondrous delight-"

"That is a dishonest answer and you know it," Damantin said sternly. "There is a catch – an immense one, at that. Would you care to answer again, truthfully this time?"

Rosie hissed, playfully slithering behind me and sliding her arms around my neck in an expression of mild defiance towards the sorcerer. My breath caught in my throat, and I found myself wishing she wouldn't do such things; not because they weren't pleasurable – they were, frighteningly so – but because they made it terribly difficult to focus.

"Very well. The 'catch', as you so crudely put it, is that the Chaos Gods are the apotheoses of the things they represent. The aspects they engender – violence, sensation, change and stasis – grow more and more excessive the closer one grows to the gods, their apexes. Therefore, followers of the Chaos Gods are inevitably victims of these excesses. Chaos by itself is not an inherently malicious force, but the Gods certainly are." She laughed, a musical yet sinister sound that chimed teasingly in my ear, and drew her arms tighter about me. "Wouldn't you like that, Fen? To be corrupted by your dear, sweet Rosie…"

" _Enough._ " Damantin's voice literally made the air tremble. It was not a shout, but it carried an iron incontestability that unwound Rosie from around me and caused her to recoil with a threatened hiss. "The decision to turn to Chaos – or not to – is his and his alone, Ruzal'kara." My mind instantly cleared, and I realized it was the first time I'd heard Rosie's true name. Striding forwards, he reached down and pulled me to my feet. A little shaken by just how much power the Daemonette had been able to exert over me, I nodded my thanks. After releasing me, he stepped back and stared at me in what I surmised was a serious manner. Once again, that helmet made it impossible to divine his intentions until he spoke.

"All that Marrlë and Rosie have said is true. It is a similar thing for Tzeentch and I – only, unlike the others, I do not follow him out of choice. My soul has been eternally and inextricably bound to the Changer of Ways, and I never had the chance to prevent that from happening. For that reason, I would see to it that you, Fenwick, know what all of it means, and why it carries such weight." He crossed his arms, staff resting between them, and, with an uncharacteristic note of caution entering his voice, said, "If you would… as we have shared our perspectives on Chaos, I would hear your view of the Imperium you serve."

There I was, suddenly on the spot. I hadn't expected to be called on for any sort of introspection; rather, I'd thought that I'd be plopped down and preached to for a while. Having been pleasantly surprised in that regard, it only stood to reason that something would be demanded of me as well. I wracked my brain for something coherent and meaningful, and, after a minute of shuffling my feet nervously, lifted my chin in what I hope was a convincing facsimile of confidence.

"W-well," I said, loathing the momentary stutter in my voice and ignoring Thurion's sneer as best as I could, "I understand that the Imperium isn't perfect. I'll give you that much. They've done plenty of wrong and made a ton of mistakes."

Damantin gave a solemn nod, and my heart went out to him, remembering what he'd told me as we walked. Of all those Astartes Legions who had been deemed traitors, the Thousand Sons must've been the ones who suffered the most tragic fate, and the greatest injustice. Brutalized by the Space Wolves, deceived by Horus and Tzeentch and finally villainized by the Imperium, it was no wonder they now walked the path they did. "What happened to you and your brothers, for example. On behalf of the entire Imperium, I'm sorry about that."

"It is not your mistake to apologize for, Fenwick," he said, more quietly than usual. Before things got truly uncomfortable, I pressed on.

"The Inquisition and the Ecclesiarchy have done some truly reprehensible things – any native of Fenksworld knows that. The amount of wrongfully convicted heretics and needlessly slaughtered innocents makes my stomach turn. The rampant superstition, hatred of psykers, fear of the unknown and excessive punishments – there are good reasons for all of those things, but I still don't think that they're right. I think more people think that than are willing to admit." Marrlë grunted in agreement, and I met his eyes. I could tell he was wondering where I was going with this, and I decided not to keep him and the others waiting any longer.

"But, even considering all that… I can't turn my back on the Imperium, and I don't think I ever could."

That got mixed reactions. Rosie huffed and crossed her arms; Thurion growled and spat on the ground – away from me, thankfully; Damantin let out what sounded to me like a sigh of relief, and Marrlë continued looking at me, his eyes impossibly intense. I couldn't avert my gaze, and found no reason to.

"That's what the Imperium is about. To live and serve in the Imperium is to believe in the impossible. It's to dream that at the end of this, beyond the xenos and the Chaos and the hatred, there's something worth living for. To hope for a better future, even when all the signs seem to be screaming at us to give up, that it'll never happen. That's why millions of men and women fight and die every day. That's why the Space Marines descend from the skies to bring the judgement of blade and bolter. That's why the tech-priests build machines, and why the Inquisition journeys into the heart of darkness. The faith that the Imperial Cult is always on about? That's it. It's what gets me up in the morning and lets me sleep at night. And as long as I live, I won't ever stop believing in it."

There was silence for a while. I held my ground, meeting Marrlë's crimson eyes with as much conviction as I could muster. I heard the breathing of the others, and the wind carrying dust through the air around us.

At last, Marrlë gave me a soulful smile. "That dream of yours doesn't sound too bad."

"Indeed not," whispered Damantin. "But-"

"But it won't ever become a reality," Thurion rumbled, rising to his feet and stalking towards me with heavy, clanking steps. Looming nearly three whole feet over me, he narrowed his eyes and snarled, letting me see his mouthful of pointed teeth. Not iron spikes like Marrlë's, but I still didn't want them anywhere near my extremities. "Tell me, Guardsman," he hissed. "Tell me how, in the face of all of that failure and corruption, you can still believe in such a thing."

To be honest, I wanted to wet myself and run. I would much rather have a rematch with the ork that took my fingers than stand up to the hulking monster that was Thurion, but there was nothing for it. Drawing myself up to my full less-than-six feet, I gave him a wry grin.

"Well, that's the thing about faith, isn't it? It's not faith anymore if success is right in front of you. It's about believing _in spite_ of how bad things are, and continuing to believe no matter how much worse they become."

"That is idiotic," he growled.

I shrugged. "Hey, no one ever accused humanity of genius. And anyone who did obviously never had the chance to meet a proper red-blooded Guardsman." I could practically feel Marrlë and Rosie grin from behind the mass of Thurion's power armour. The Chaos Space Marine studied me for a moment longer before smirking and shouldering past me.

As soon as his back was to me, I finally let the breath that I'd been holding in my chest for the last minute escape and bent over, gasping for air; that had been just about the most terrifying thing I'd ever done. Despite him looking no happier and acting no less contemptuously towards me, I sensed that my answer had, in some way, satisfied Thurion. As I felt Rosie helping me straighten up and making sure I wasn't having a seizure, I allowed myself a little congratulatory smile.


	7. Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer

**A/N: Thanks for the reads and reviews so far. I'm glad people are enjoying this story, and I hope you stick around to see where Fenwick ends up. You may have noticed that in the description for the story, it says that 'things don't immediately go horribly'. The key word there, of course, is 'immediately'. Believe it or not, this is still 40k.**

* * *

"Um…"

"Have you something to say, human?" Thurion asked, stopping and turning halfway towards me. As he stopped, so did the others, turning to look back at me curiously. As they had paused, so did I, and took the opportunity to discreetly catch my breath. Having gotten my breathing to level out, I pointed at the dust-shrouded structure in the distance. It looked suspiciously like a rundown military base.

"Is it just me, or are we going towards that?"

Marrlë and Thurion looked at each other for a moment before the former burst out laughing, while the other chuckled behind the gorget of his armour. I looked at them in confusion before Damantin stepped over to me and quietly apologized for both of them, and proceeded to explain to me that we had, in fact, been heading towards that structure for the better part of a day now, ever since the entire group had sighted it. Well, the entire group except for me.

"We may have forgotten that your vision is not enhanced beyond normal human capacity, I'm afraid," he conceded, actually sounding contrite. "As soon as Marrlë saw it, he began making for it, and we all followed. It was easy to guess what his intentions are, but such a place holds value beyond-."

"Orks," the Khornate snarled eagerly, and ran his hand over Gorelady's head. "There have to be orks there. They've probably orkified the place, too. I can't _wait_ …"

"Hold on. There are orks there, and we're going… towards them?" This seemed to fly in the face of all logic, until I remembered whose logic we were operating on, and nodded resignedly to myself. Right. Naturally, Marrlë was eager to sink his chainaxe into something again. He had been remarkably patient in terms of waiting for a fight; it had been another week since our last encounter with a band of orks, and in that time he had neither threatened anyone with violence, nor had he started foaming at the mouth and screaming heretical oaths. Well, for the most part.

I preemptively loaded my lasgun with a fresh power pack, which earned me a nod of approval from Damantin. The Thousand Son had been giving me daily shooting lessons, and according to him, I could now confidently call myself a good shot. By normal human standards, anyway. Regardless, I was feeling much less nervous about getting into a fight, especially with the squad drills the sorcerer had been putting us through.

As we drew closer, he went over and spoke to each of us individually, giving us hypotheticals and instructions concerning the battle that no doubt awaited. As I looked at them, I realized Marrlë wasn't the only one itching for violence. Thurion's fingers were drumming on the hilt of his power sword, and Rosie's claws were clacking impatiently. While they all seemed to have their little rituals, I wasn't quite sure how to pump myself up for an upcoming fight, and as I thought this over, Damantin appeared beside me.

"Nervous?"

To my credit, I did not flinch from his sudden proximity. "I am," I admitted, "but not as much as I would be without your lessons. They've helped a lot, I think."

"Save that sort of statement for after we've won." Nevertheless, he sounded somewhat pleased. I nodded and put on a brave face while he doled out instructions to me. As we had practiced, I would provide cover fire while Rosie and Marrlë tore through the orks on the walls, drawing most of the fire while I ensured nothing too dangerous was able to pin them down. Thurion would battle them on the ground, and lure them into a position where Damantin would be able to roast most of them with a few psychic blasts. As we went, we would use whatever defenses the orks had set up to our advantage. They would be expecting an attack from beyond their walls, not from within; Damantin's teleportation would give us that much-needed edge.

As we drew carefully closer over the wasteland, keeping to rockier terrain to minimize our chances of detection, I saw faint movement on the fort's wall. I realized that at this point, the others would be able to see what was going on with much better clarity than I, and so I would have to rely on their guidance until we started our assault.

While Damantin continued his tactical evaluation, Thurion loaded his bolt pistol, Marrlë paced impatiently and Rosie polished her claws to a glistening black, I pulled out the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer and skimmed through it, smirking at some of the more ludicrous statements, especially where the effectiveness of the lasgun and flak armour was concerned. Of course, it wasn't as if the Primer was a complete pack of lies: there was plenty of useful information regarding military command hierarchy, forms of address and gear maintenance. Giving that last section a quick review, I made sure my lasrifle was in good shape, filled up my flak armour's pockets with power packs, adjusted my helmet and gave myself a determined nod. I was ready, or at least, as ready as I could be.

Or so I thought. Reaching into my pack to store the Primer, my hand brushed against something hard and round. With a suspicious frown, I gave the unseen object a squeeze, and pulled it out to inspect it. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I found myself holding a grenade, catching Marrlë's eye. He raised an eyebrow, and I waved him off. I didn't know what sort of grenade this was, and until I did and found a good reason to use it, this thing was staying firmly clipped to my belt.

Before I could ask Damantin what exactly I had just stuck to my waist, the sorcerer nodded and declared, "Now."

Muttering a spine-chilling incantation, Damantin waved his force staff and ripped open a churning hole in the fabric of reality. I had barely enough time to register its existence and try to fathom its purpose when Thurion stormed through it, energy crackling from his sword and bolt pistol held at the ready. With a quick clench of Gorelady's throttle and the expression of a child who has been gifted a new toy, Marrlë followed suit. Rosie stood at the gate's edge, shifting on her taloned feet, and looked over to me. "Well?" I forced myself to lock into reality and gave her a quizzical glance, in response to which she laughed and reached out her delicate hand. "Aren't you coming? We have a fort full of orks to kill."

I blinked and looked at her hand, hesitating for a second. Only for a second, though. "Let's go," I said, wearing the inimitable grin of someone who has been forced to discard reason and common sense in order to stay sane. I closed my hand around hers, and we leapt through the gate together. The hole in reality spat us out atop the base's walls, whereupon we were greeted by autogun fire whizzing through the air around us. I yelped and dove behind a nearby barricade, while Rosie danced through the hail of gunfire and whirled onwards, claws open and prepared to rend any ork unfortunate enough to find itself in her way.

Timidly lifting my head above the ramshackle barricade, I assessed the situation as best as I could. The wall of the fort ran around the central building, and on it were mounted several dakkaguns – orkified autocannons, all pointing outwards. No one was manning them, though; a trail of green and red gore signaled Marrlë's progress along the wall, where he and his axe had no doubt had a grand old time. There he was, on the opposite side of the wall from me, standing his ground against a crowd of greenskins who were literally falling over each other – some tipping off the wall onto the melee below – to reach him. Their close proximity to one another, and to Marrlë, was making their otherwise dangerous guns less useful. Therefore, they were forced to pit their crude choppas against the Khornate's screaming chainaxe, which wasn't going in their favour.

One Boy tried reaching out and forcibly pulling Marrlë into their midst, where they could beat and hack him to pieces with ease. The look of astonishment on the greenskin's face when the frenzied warrior tore its arm off with his bare hand and used it to brain its former owner while fending off the other orks was priceless. I might've laughed, if it weren't for the shouting and gunfire going off all around me. Slipping out from behind the barricade, I set my lasrifle to semi-automatic mode, and looked around for a better place to focus my fire.

There – Rosie was racing around the wall to reach Marrlë, and some of the orks on the ground were turning their guns up towards her, forcing her to dodge their attempts to shoot her as she ran on. Now that I looked closer at them, I realized with a bit of amusement that the orks were hilariously inaccurate – the danger of their guns came from the sheer volume of bullets being sprayed, not the marksmanship of their wielders.

My fire, then, went to cover Rosie's progress. The orks aiming at her found their guns jamming as my three-shot lasgun volleys slammed into the hefty weapons. This had the desired effect of getting them to stop shooting at my Daemonette ally; however, it resulted in them firing at me instead. Inaccurate as they were, I decided to stay out of full cover for a moment longer. Something on the ground was drawing my attention.

The reason the cluster of orks on the ground weren't riddling Marrlë, Rosie, and their own with gunfire was because the majority of them were converging on a single point, intent on being at the forefront of the fierce battle occurring there. I watched, awe-stricken, as the warrior in forbidding black armour stood at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the wall, single-handedly holding the greenskin mob at bay.

If Marrlë and Rosie were whirlwinds, then Thurion was a thunderstorm, his sword cutting down several orks with every swing, and each bolt from his pistol bursting a green cranium as it found its mark. I couldn't fathom how he was able to create an impassable wall of death with his blade and still fire with such impeccable precision, but he could. All by himself, he valiantly held the stairs, drawing the attention of the main body of greenskins while Marrlë and Rosie wreaked havoc on the wall.

Yet it was becoming apparent that even a warrior as fearsome as Thurion couldn't last against such numbers. Though he gave no ground, every so often a choppa would breach his defense and strike his armour, with all the fearsome strength of an ork Boy behind it. It was slowly wearing on him, I could tell, and so, without a second thought, I forsook the safety of the barricade, darting along the wall to one of the unmanned autocannons and, wrenching it around with all my might, began firing as carefully as I could into the mass of orks on the ground, aiming for those immediately behind the ones he was fighting.

Compared to my humble lasrifle, the autocannon was incredibly effective, ripping into the orks like tissue paper. The damn thing was near impossible to control and groaned menacingly with each round fired, so I let go of it before long for fear of hitting Thurion, but I had drawn their attention long enough for the Space Marine to dig in his heels and lay into the orks closest to him with new vigour as the pressure of the greenskin mob lessened. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw him send a subtle nod of acknowledgement my way.

Seeing that I was providing cover fire, several more Boyz spun around and began to unload their guns at me; or rather, in my general direction. However, the amount of bullets coming at me was reaching a treacherous volume, to the point where I really was in grave danger of taking a salvo to the face now. I dove back behind the nearby barricade, wishing I could help out more. A suit of carapace armour would be very, very nice right about now, but that was neither here nor there.

As the green tide surged against Thurion, some of those orks who had been distracted by my initial cover fire turned their guns on Marrlë and Rosie. The two of them were now forced to battle the orks on the wall while weathering the grounded orks' barrages of gunfire. Perhaps the most dangerous thing about them was that they never seemed to run out of bullets. Slowly, Marrlë and Rosie were forced back along the wall, and the orks closest to the stairs began turning on Thurion. Soon, he'd be surrounded, and with me currently pinned down and the other two struggling on the wall, the sheer numbers would overwhelm him.

I was on the verge of despair when, at last, help arrived. Soaring over the wall on a strange blue and gold spike-rimmed disc with a single roving eye at its center, the Chaos sorcerer stopped in the air, briefly surveying the battlefield. His disc carried him lower, and while the orks noticed him and began firing on him, it seemed no bullet could touch him. He spoke a Word, and his fists clenched as those orks attacking him were suddenly engulfed in unnatural blue flames. Screaming faces and impossible shapes danced within the fires, biting and clawing at the orks even as the blaze ate their flesh away.

At last, Thurion began to retreat up the stairs, briefly disengaging with the mob beneath. They made to follow him, but before they could, Damantin spoke another Word.

Raising his arms above his head, the Thousand Son stood tall, with his head tilted back as if enraptured by some unseen entity. The very air twisted and churned, as if protesting what was being done to it. Before my eyes, it became something unnatural and frightening, intangible and yet all too real. With an abyssal howl, the air curled upwards, wreathing the sorcerer in a shroud of dark power, before flowing downwards and crashing over the massed orks like a tidal wave.

I had never seen such devastation before in my life. The greenskins caught in the way of the howling wind were bowled over and devoured, the raw power of the Warp corrupting and consuming their bodies to the point of utter destruction. Thurion, having retreated up the stairs, had avoided the blast, as had the few orks that had managed to follow him in time. As the deadly windstorm passed, though, they found themselves alone on the stairway with the Space Marine who moments before had gutted two dozen of their brethren.

This was to say nothing of the fate of the orks facing Marrlë and Rosie, who, no longer supported by the gunners below, now met with the unbridled fury of Gorelady and the Daemonette's scything claws. I drew out from behind my barricade to lay down cover fire, but at that point it really wasn't necessary; I took out a single Boy in the time it took the others to finish splattering the remaining orks over the walls and stairway.

Descending until his disc hovered only a foot above the ground, Damantin waved his hand and banished the odd contraption back to the Warp. As the others staggered down the stairs to meet him, he uttered one final Word of Power, and the ork corpses were set alight. This, I understood, was to prevent the spores they released upon dying from becoming more orks.

I waved to the others and began heading around the wall to reach the stairs. On my way there, I got an eyeful of my companions; besides Damantin, each of them had taken their share of hurt. Marrlë had several dripping gashes on his forearms, and there was a cut running straight through his lips on one side. Rosie's treasured claws had been scratched up, and several of the spines protruding from the back of her arms had been broken off. Thurion's suit had received several nasty dents, and black blood trickled out of an old wound in his side that had been reopened through a weak spot in his armour.

As I came down the stairs, Marrlë peered at my chest, then met my eyes with a chuckle. "Huh, look at that. I guess Guardsman padding counts for something after all." I looked down and saw, running across my stomach in a horizontal line, dents where an autogun's fire had raked over my body. Without the flak armour and the now-ruptured power packs stored in its pockets, I would almost certainly have been cut in half – or at least, very seriously injured. I blinked, astonished at not having felt the bullets hit me, and then laughed out loud.

Shame on me for doubting the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer. I'd be more respectful towards my standard-issue flak armour from then on.


	8. Tether

After taking the orkified base and mopping up the few Boyz we found in the garrison, we decided to do some looking around. It quickly became apparent that Marrlë's instinct to attack the fortress had served us beyond simply giving us a fight; immediately we stumbled upon an unused storeroom, full of medical supplies and bandages. Though lacking in advanced medical ability, Rosie eagerly took to binding Marrlë's gashed arms. He refused any painkillers, though, saying it wasn't a very Khornate thing to drug away the pain. All part of the game, he called it. Looking at the nasty cuts he bore, I knew I wouldn't have done the same in his stead.

Rosie had cuts and bruises of her own. I offered to help her with them, but she waved me away, saying they'd heal by themselves given a little while. Nonetheless, I felt obligated to help her after all she'd done for me so far, so I polished Thurion's armour while she bandaged his reopened wound. The grouchy Space Marine and I were not friends by any measure, but my assisting him with the autocannon had created a quiet understanding between us. For the duration of Rosie's tending to him, he didn't sneer at me a single time.

Unable to withhold my curiosity, I glanced at him a few times while polishing his armour. I'd never seen an unarmoured Space Marine, and had no idea what to expect. What I saw was actually more surprising than anything I'd been imagining: every one of his bulging muscles was reinforced by and entwined with metal cables, which occasionally broke the surface of his skin. The marine's flesh was hairless and rubbery-looking, and beneath the surface of his chest was a faintly visible black film that extended around his torso, like a vest worn under the skin. At several points on his body, things not unlike large rivets were bolted into him. All of this looked incredibly odd and uncomfortable, and I reminded myself that most tech-priests looked like this, only taken to another level entirely.

Without a doubt, his most memorable feature was the pair of large black horn-like protrusions twisting out of his mid-back. They seemed to have grown through his armour, which had, to my amazement, seemingly adapted to this; it bore two holes of a corresponding size and placement, with runic patterns extending outwards from those points.

Once Rosie had finished with his side, he rose, rolled his shoulders and stood there as if waiting for something to happen. It took a moment for it to set in that he wanted us to put his armour on; the Daemonette was already beside me, taking pieces of his gear and placing them onto him one bit at a time. I got the impression that this should have been a much more complicated procedure, but oddly enough, the armour appeared to seamlessly meld with his skin once each piece was on. Now, I was no expert, but I was fairly sure that this was _not_ how power armour normally worked.

We were done in a surprisingly short amount of time. With his full suit – minus his helmet, which he never wore – equipped, he nodded by way of thanks and headed out into the adjoining hallway. With our duty done, Rosie and I followed suit and began exploring the garrison. Whoever built it had seemingly had every amenity before the orks had taken it; there were rooms with fuel for vehicles and chain weapons, a small laboratory stocked with the materials one would normally use to make explosives, a chamber piled high with ammunition, and – yes! – an honest-to-goodness armoury.

We found Thurion there, sorting through bolt rounds and strapping choice magazines to his belt. He barely acknowledged us as we looked at the many guns mounted on the walls. Most of them were lasguns; I actually spied a portable lascannon, which I was tempted to grab. However, the highlight of our visit to the gunroom turned out to be the plasma pistol I found lying behind a stack of autogun ammo cases.

I picked up the weapon and held it up to the flickering light, admiring it almost reverently. Compact, light, and devastatingly powerful, this gun was a true rarity, and I silently thanked the Emperor for allowing me to come upon such a gem. Rosie appeared bored, looking disinterestedly at her claws, so I pocketed the pistol, along with a couple of plasma flasks, and the two of us left the armoury – but not before I cast one last forlorn glance at that lascannon.

As we walked down the garrison hallways, I got the odd sense that Rosie was nervous about something. That wasn't like her at all; she was usually teasing and provocative, and it was her silence now that made me wonder – and worry. Damantin's warning flashed to the forefront of my mind, and so I pushed my worry for her aside with some difficulty, resolving not to bring anything up that didn't need to be.

One of us might have spoken then, if we hadn't heard the distinctive sound of Marrlë's yelling voice. Breaking into a run, we threw open the door of the garrison to find him ranting happily to a bored-looking Damantin in the courtyard, which was still littered with choppas and shootas.

"This place has it all!" He raved, swinging Gorelady around with reckless abandon. Damantin subtly shifted to stand a bit further away, while nodding in mechanical agreement. "Stocked with weapons, all tricked out with barricades and autocannons, there's shelter if a dust storm hits, and a kitchen in the garrison, with food! Real food!"

"Old food," said Damantin, tonelessly.

"But not spoiled food! Attacking this place was the best idea I've had since…" and on he went for a while, until he at last seemed to notice me and Rosie and took that as his cue to calm down a tad. "Oi, I didn't see you two. Looks like you've got yourself a new gun, Fen." He nodded at the handle of the plasma pistol sticking out of my pocket, and I pulled it out to show off.

"Isn't it something? I didn't think there was anything like this on Armatura, but it's not the first time I've been surprised since landing here." Marrlë smiled at that, and then spun around to take in the base with a wave of his hand.

"I was just saying to Damantin – this place has everything we could want. It's defensible, well-stocked and bound to be attacked by orks all the time." I agreed with him, right up until that last part, but chose to simply nod. Orks were a pretty unavoidable hazard on this planet; if we were to deal with them, I figured we might as well do so from an advantageous position. "So I was thinking –"

"We turn it into a base?"

"Exactly." He beamed, and his iron teeth managed to flash, even in the gentle, dust-choked light. "You agree?"

"I've heard worse ideas," I replied, looking around at Damantin and Rosie. "What do you two think?"

"I am also in agreement," the Thousand Son said, "though I would be gratified if Marrlë ceased baying about what an excellent decision he made in choosing to attack this fort. He has been shouting constantly for nearly five minutes." The Khornate reddened and muttered an apology, which got a chuckle out of me.

As the sky grew redder, which signaled the onset of this planet's equivalent of night, I offered to take first watch. I did that often, for selfish reasons: though I was beginning to enjoy the others' company – especially Marrlë, who never failed to bring a smile to my face with his relentless enthusiasm – I still treasured those moments where I could sit by myself, look up at the ruddy, dust-strewn heavens and imagine an Imperial ship descending from them to spirit me away. A far-fetched notion, and one that used to make me despair at its improbability, but it had eventually settled into a dull, familiar source of hope.

On that night, when the red roof of the sky was less dust-choked than usual, it was Rosie who came to find me sitting atop one of the large orkified autocannons, staring off into space. As usual, I did not hear her approach, and her presence was unknown to me until I felt the cold surface of her claw tickle the back of my neck. By this point, though, I had gotten accustomed to her attempts to make me jump, and now denied her the pleasure of seeing me do so.

"Are you trying to get me to break my own neck? If I actually fell from here, I just might. But then, I guess you'd find that funny."

With a hiss of displeasure, the Daemonette lithely scaled the gun and lay on her belly, crossing her forearms and propping herself up on her elbows. "When are you going to stop maligning me, Fenwick? In case you hadn't noticed, I don't want you dead – in fact, quite the opposite."

"I've noticed you keep helping me. Every time I get tired or hurt, you're always there first, making sure I'm all right. Why?" I kept my face carefully expressionless. She did not; hurt and anger twisted her beautiful features and easily struck guilt into my heart. It occurred to me that the effect was probably deliberate.

"If I weren't a daemon, you wouldn't be asking that."

"But you are a daemon," I replied evenly, my voice as neutral as I could make it. "So tell me." In the end, though, I couldn't help myself, and added, "Look, it's not that I'm scared, and I'm not angry either. I don't mean to upset you-"

"But you have."

"-but I have. Still, I think I have a right to make sure." I winced inwardly, and continued. "Surely I'm not being unreasonable, am I?"

"No, you're not," she conceded with a scowl, "but daemons are not creatures of reason."

"Noted." I got the impression that she wasn't inclined to give me a straight answer, but I was prepared to push in order to get one. I thought I was justified in wanting to know if I was being lured into becoming her plaything. "But you must have a reason for coming out to find me, no? My watch isn't over until the sky gets _much_ redder."

The tiniest of smiles graced her lips, and I felt marginally better about myself. "I do."

"Are you going to tell me what it is?" I tilted my head, forcing her to do the same if she wanted to look directly into my eyes. She went with it, and her smile broadened.

"I might show you. But not before you apologize to me for asking such rude, tasteless questions."

"I didn't mean to-"

"But you did," she cut me off again, enjoying the power she currently held over me. "Go on, I'm waiting."

I sighed exaggeratedly in mock defeat. "Fine, fine. I'm sorry I asked you such rude, tasteless questions, Rosie."

"Apology accepted." Her eyes gleamed, and she shifted across the gun, closer to me. I forced myself not to retreat further up the autocannon and held her gaze. "Now, would you like me to answer those questions?"

I blinked. Once again, there went my expectations. Still, I had held my ground this far, and I wasn't going to let my footing slip. "You will?"

"Contrary to what you seem to believe, I am a daemon of my word," she said, pushing herself up and leaning back on one slender arm. The long, thin dark purple tendrils extending from her head in place of hair swayed gently in the dusty wind, and like everything else about her, I found them alarmingly attractive. "I'll tell you, Fenwick… but only because it has to do with my reason for coming out here."

I said nothing to that, prompting her to continue.

"You know that Daemonettes are the lesser daemons of Slaanesh. And, from my explanation, you have some idea of what Slaanesh is… and, by extension, what I am. What I represent."

She must have shared in my discomfort, because she paused here. The expression on her face told me it was not only for effect. "I was summoned to this plane by Damantin, to serve him in battle. Don't ask me how; apparently, he was trying to summon a daemon, and I appeared instead of a Horror of Tzeentch. Nonetheless, he decided to keep me summoned, and so I have existed outside of the Warp for nearly two months, now."

"The longer I stayed, the more feelings filled me. Joys, pains, rages and sorrows; I came to know them all, and as I took them in, I grew stronger. I have not always had four arms, you know – they grew after a battle involving particularly elevated sensations. And as I've grown stronger, I have developed thoughts and motivations beyond simple excesses and pleasure. I want to stay here, outside of the Warp – daemons who remain here long enough to grow are a privileged and enlightened few. But I am having… difficulties."

"Difficulties?" Openly intrigued and privately worried, I leaned forwards, which seemed to surprise her. Her head turned sharply to face me, dark eyes wide, and she averted her gaze before continuing.

"As I grow more powerful, I require more and more heightened emotion to keep me attached to Materium. Without it, I am in danger of fading back into the Empyrean. Fighting helps, but it doesn't happen often enough to keep me… sated, so to speak. Marrlë's constant excitement is a tiny lifeline, but that isn't enough either. Without a powerful source of emotion tethering me here, I will fade away before long."

I took all this in, taking a moment to digest it, and felt a twinge of sympathy. I understood her situation, as well as a simple Guardsman could understand a daemon's plight. Something wasn't clicking, though. Hesitantly, I asked, "What does all this have to do with me?"

Keeping her eyes carefully averted, she mumbled something inaudible. I frowned and leaned closer. "What?"

"…I was hoping you could be my tether."

And just like that, everything connected in my head. I jumped off the autocannon, down to the wall it was mounted on, and backed away. "So, all along, you helping me and being nice to me – you just wanted to beguile me?"

"No! It's not like that at all!" Her nervousness seemed to have given way to something I'd never seen from her. Was that desperation in her voice? "I mean, I may have thought about it, from time to time, but that was never my intention. I want something different from you, feelings that I don't have to bewitch you in order to earn."

I stopped dead, looking up at her in utter astonishment and total disbelief. Out of everything so far, this was the hardest thing to swallow by a significant margin – and that was saying a lot. This daemon – no, Rosie – wanted…

"You want me… to…"

Pursing her lips, she nodded quickly. The weir light of Armatura's night sky shone harshly down on us both, casting a red sheen over her purple skin and runic armour and lengthening the shadows cast by the wall and the cannons atop it.

"Yes. I was hoping I could make you feel such things. Foolish of me, I know. I saw it in your eyes the moment I first looked into them: you'll never be corrupted. You'll never turn away from your Corpse Emperor, least of all for the sake of a daemon's desire."

The resignation on her face was heartbreaking. At that moment, I quietly cursed many things – myself, for ever joining the guard; the orks, for not finishing me when they had the chance; my new friends, for their completely unwarranted kindnesses. Most of all, I cursed the daemon before me.

"Rosie." She stiffened, watching me walk up to her. Her eyes widened when I took her hands in mine.

"You're right. I'll never turn my back on the Emperor. His light will guide me always, and may I never falter in pursuing it."

"You wound me," she muttered, trying to pull her hands away. I didn't let her.

"That being said, I don't think I could forgive myself if I let you fade away."

I heard her hiss in surprise, and gave her a smile. To this day, I hope desperately that it looked brave, considering everything that would come afterwards. I pulled her off the autocannon, and she landed gracefully on those talons of hers, moving fluidly into my embrace. There, bathed in the crimson glow of the night, I shared my second kiss with Rosie.


	9. Luna Wolf

**A/N: I'm frankly astonished that it's taken this long for the accusations of heresy to start appearing, considering the subject matter. There'd probably be a lot more if I advertised this as a Romance fic, but thankfully that is not what this is. Anyway, enjoy.**

* * *

Come morning, I found some relatively clean clothes in the garrison and stumbled out into the yard, covered from head to toe in shallow cuts and bite marks. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I groaned and squinted up at the orange sky, never having felt so tired in my life. After our exchange on the wall, Rosie had seen to it that I received no sleep that night, taking me on a wonderful and terrifying journey of sensations I had never dreamed could be felt. It was actually closer to midday, judging by the dull orange colour of the sky, and I wondered with apprehension if every night from now on would be like this. If that was the case, I estimated I'd last maybe a week before my body gave out altogether.

My speculations regarding this dark and heretical future might have gone on longer if I hadn't seen Thurion standing alone on the wall, his black livery freshly polished and seemingly immune to the dust in the wind. Normally I would have kept my distance, but on that particular morning I got the strange urge to join him there. Hesitating only for a moment, I lifted my chin and headed up the stairs.

When he wasn't sneering or snarling, Thurion was possessed of a noble, commanding visage – square-jawed and amber-eyed. That face now looked out over the wasteland, to a cluster of distant rocky hills, from which a column of smoke was now rising into the sky. I squinted, trying to perceive its source.

"A Thunderhawk."

Hearing his voice without the usual vitriol was startling. I looked up at him in confusion. "A Thunderhawk?"

"An Astartes gunship. It crash-landed out by those hills not a minute ago."

My brows rose, and I looked back at the smoke. That was… significant. Incredibly significant. If the Adeptus Astartes were here, that meant that reinforcements had finally come for the Guardsmen of Armatura – far too late, but they had come. Thurion must've seen the hope on my face, because he was quick to dash it. "Don't get excited, human. Even from here, I could see the mark of Slaanesh on the vessel's side. Anything there is likely to be hostile."

I frowned. "But, Rosie-"

"Rosie is an aberration," Thurion said sharply, and what stung most was that it was true. She had essentially told me so herself. "Do not let its honeyed words cloud your judgement." It was only then that he looked down at me and noticed the myriad of scratches covering my body, and smirked. "Perhaps I spoke too soon. It seems it is less of an aberration than I thought." With that quip, he turned and made for the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"To investigate, human," he called, without turning back or shortening his stride. I blinked, and hurried to grab my gear before following him out of the gate. Now he did turn to look at me, his disdain unconcealed. "You're coming?"

"Sure I am. Have to make sure you're not deserting us." I patted the bolt pistol at my hip, which made his eyes narrow in mild amusement.

"If we were to be concerned about anyone deserting, it would be you."

"Me?" I was taken aback by that. Out of all of us, I'd never imagined myself to be the one evoking suspicion, but when I thought about it, it did make sense. I was, after all, an Imperial allegiant among heretics and traitors.

"Oh, yes. I saw the spark in your eyes when you heard an Astartes vessel had landed on this world. Consciously or not, you long to return to the people you belong with: Imperial scum." I bridled at his insulting terminology, but opted to say nothing, trotting along beside him in silence. He continued, indifferent to or unaware of my umbrage.

"You have been with us for the least amount of time, and your allegiance lies the furthest from any of ours. We are disparate in our philosophies, yes, but ultimately we all serve the same master: Chaos, in all its infinity. Whether eagerly, like Marrlë, or reluctantly, like Damantin, we exist to oppose the rotting carcass of an empire you serve."

I could hear the resentment in his voice as he spoke of the Imperium, and found that it resonated with a part of me deep within. Though I was and always would be loyal to the cause of humanity, I knew the imperfections of the Imperium were deep and manifold. I wondered then what would become of the others – of us – once we escaped Armatura, and asked Thurion as much.

He laughed bitterly. "Has it not passed through your tiny mind yet, human? Nothing ever goes right in this wastebin of a galaxy – for anyone. If – and that is a sizeable if – we do somehow find a means to leave Armatura before the orks kill us, then we will part ways. Marrlë will go charging off to die in some glorious war, Damantin will be dragged away by Tzeentch on some intricate plot, the Daemonette will grow stronger until it can no longer maintain its form in Realspace, and I will continue my search for a warband worthy of my allegiance. And of course, if you are intact after all of this, you will toddle back to your Imperium, lasgun held high, and be tortured to death by an Inquisitor."

I cringed at the thought, made all the worse by how likely it actually seemed. Beyond that, though, I wondered if I finally had an inkling of his motivations. I grew a bit more intrigued. "And the reason you're here with us is…?"

"As a means to an end," he scoffed. "Though Marrlë is competent for a human, Damantin is the only one among you who I would consider worthy. As for you, I am frankly astonished that you have managed to survive and stay sane this long."

I chose to take that as a compliment.

"Tell me, human – have you heard of the Black Legion?"

"Yes," I answered immediately. "Everyone has. You mean the lot who launched twelve failed crusades against the Imperium, right?"

"Thirteen," Thurion growled, and the clawed fingers of his gauntlets clenched. "Now, let us see if you know your history. Does the Imperium still speak of the Luna Wolves?"

"Um…" As far as I knew, they did not. I wracked my brain, scouring my memories for some mention of that name. When I came up blank, I shrugged helplessly, which caused the Space Marine's ever-present scowl to deepen.

"I see," he said quietly. "It does not surprise me; that is a name from long ago. Before the Black Legion set forth under the command of Ezekyle Abaddon, they knew another master, and wore different colours. Then, we were the Sons of Horus. And before that, we were the Luna Wolves."

"The Sons of… oh. _Oh_." I goggled at Thurion, realizing with a shock just who I was walking alongside. He belonged to the Legion that had served under Horus, the arch-traitor who had struck down the Emperor and torn the great Imperium of old asunder. Horror and revulsion welled up inside me.

"You're with the Black Legion," I croaked. He regarded me quietly for a moment, his features twisting in something other than anger or disdain.

"I was," he muttered. "But no longer."

Before I could press the matter, we had crested the closest of the hills and were now looking down into a basin of cracked earth where the crashed Thunderhawk rested. The first thing I noticed was the ship's nose, brutally crumpled into the earth with sheets of metal and loose wires splayed out in all direction. One wing had fallen off from the impact, and flames burned on the far side of the craft. I sucked in air through my teeth as I grimly assessed the damage; this would not be the ship we escaped Armatura on. Where were the tech-priests when you needed them?

The second thing I noticed was the two Space Marines that had emerged from the wreckage, surrounded by orks. Their livery was a shade of pink that oddly made me think of Rosie, appearing burnished even in the dull, dust-choked light of Armatura. A sickeningly sweet scent filled the air, nearly making me stumble back as it assailed my senses. As soon as I reacted, the marines looked up at me, and what I saw chilled my blood.

One bore a row of spikes along his hairless head that trailed down his neck into the back of his pink armour. One of his hands had become a chitinous claw – not unlike Rosie's, and the other carried a broadsword that seemed to whip this way and that, like a huge, obscene tongue. The second marine's eyes had been replaced by fanged mouths, with barbed tongues lolling out of each of them – again, reminding me uncomfortably of Rosie's own tongue. His real mouth curved upwards in a thoroughly unsettling grin.

"Possessed," Thurion declared, igniting the energy field around his sword. I swallowed and looked from the marines to him, my hands creeping towards the plasma pistol in my jacket; I knew that my lasrifle would be even less effective against Space Marines than it had been against orks.

"Can't you reason with them?"

"Perhaps I could – if I were alone. They will spare you no quarter, though. They sense your allegiance to the Corpse Emperor, and they will stop at nothing to snuff it out."

With shrill cries of bloodthirsty glee, the possessed marines began to race up the side of the basin towards us – no, towards me. My teeth clenched, I drew my plasma pistol and tried to take aim, but the cloying smell hit me again, making my head spin. As they neared, I was filled with despair. I didn't stand a chance against two Space Marines, and I knew Thurion wouldn't save me.

So when the black-clad warrior's gauntleted fist connected with the mouth-eyed marine's jaw and knocked it flat with a brutal _crack_ , I had no idea what to think anymore.

Hissing in pain and surprise, the floored marine made to scramble to its feet, but had its head blown clean off by a shot from Thurion's bolt pistol. His face set in a grim mask, the Black Legionnaire swung around and slammed his blade into the claw of the spiky-headed one, whose initial shock was quickly replaced by an uncomfortably hungry leer.

"What have we here?" The monster shrilled, driving Thurion back under a flurry of blows too fast for my eyes to follow. "A warrior of the Black Legion, gone soft and crawled back to the Corpse Emperor? I could cry for how pathetic it is."

"I am no ally of the Imperium," Thurion growled before regaining his footing and retaliating with an equally dizzying array of strikes. The Possessed retreated for a moment, seemingly not having expected such bladesmanship; the black-clad warrior's power sword was flickering through the air so swiftly that I could only perceive it as a blur of colour. Quick shots from his bolt pistol forced his opponent further down into the basin, and he came on again twice as viciously.

I stood there shaking, plasma pistol clenched uncertainly in two hands. I couldn't fire into that melee – the way the two fighters moved back and forth, footwork perfectly timed in a deadly dance, I was liable to hit Thurion instead of my actual target. I could only watch helplessly as the hulking super soldiers duelled, and my anger at my ineffectiveness was surpassed only by my awe at the battle before me.

To match his opponent's claw and Warp weapon, Thurion had at some point sheathed his bolt pistol and drawn his combat knife. The blade's cruel, jagged edge flashed as it drove against the daemonic marine's unnatural weaponry, seeking an opening in its defenses. Parrying blow after blow and retaliating with lightning speed, the possessed warrior disengaged, leaping back and giggling.

"Presumptuous fool! You think to lock blades with a swordmaster of the Emperor's Children, and yet-" It stopped mid-taunt, looking down in disbelief at the combat knife protruding from its boot. Thrown so quickly and subtly I hadn't even seen it fly from Thurion's hand, the weapon was now buried hilt-deep in the swordmaster's foot, pinning him in place.

The Possessed didn't have time to scream as Thurion swept forward, cleaving through its power armour and disembowelling it, following up with a low slash that severed its tendons and brought it to its knees. Forced to kneel, the panting Emperor's Child twisted its head to glare at its vanquisher. "Why?" it screeched, struggling in vain to rise. "Why have you allied with the Imperium?! You-"

Again, it was cut off, this time for good. The mutant's head flew through the air, severed by a single quick stroke of Thurion's sword. Grimacing in distaste at the blood spurting from the beheaded stump, he strode forward, fluidly pulling his combat knife out of the dead monster's foot and letting the corpse slump to the ground. "I have not allied with the Imperium," he restated flatly, his voice frighteningly calm as he walked back up the side of the basin towards me. Not knowing what to expect, my relief when he passed me and started down the hillside was tremendous.

"But a feeble warrior I would be if I failed to protect my comrades."

My eyes widened as I stared at the Space Marine's back. I stood frozen on the hilltop for a moment before realizing that he wasn't going to wait for me, and hastened down the incline to fall into step with him. I trotted along in silence beside him, seeking some way to fill the heavy silence and coming up blank. Eventually, he turned his gaze on me, and the ferocity in those eyes made me wonder if he wasn't going to strike me down then as well.

"I am many things, Fenwick, and a good man is not one of them. But let it never be said that Heritus Thurion of the Luna Wolves is anything less than a master of his craft."

Choosing not to mention that he had called me by my name instead of 'human' or 'Guardsman', I laughed and nodded vigorously. "Rest assured, I'd be the first to shout down such an accusation."

"Good." His inhuman orange eyes glinted with satisfaction, and we walked around the hillside in a comfortable silence, until we were in view of the base. At which point my eyebrows all but flew off my face.

"What in the Emperor's name is that?" I exclaimed, pointing at the massive construct chugging slowly towards our walls. The momentary silence that followed my question only seemed to give the inevitable bad news more weight.

"That, human," Thurion snarled, "is a Gargant."


	10. Gargant

**A/N: Should I change the story description to something perhaps more serious or blurb-esque? The current one is really to the point, but it also could be kind of misleading. What do you think? Thanks for reading this far, and remember: reviews, good or bad, are always welcome. Let me know what you think!**

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"A Gargant?" I whispered hoarsely, watching the mobile fortress chug towards our base with a growing sense of dread.

"An ork Titan," Thurion grimly clarified, fingers tightening around the hilt of his power sword. Then, a spark gleamed in his eye as something occurred to him. "Press on without me, human," he ordered, turning around sharply and starting back up the hill. "I thought I saw something in the wreckage of the ship that might prove invaluable to us." Before I could ask what he meant, the Luna Wolf was storming up the incline, leaving me alone with my guns and a clear view of the ork warband heading towards our base, milling around the base of the Gargant. It didn't take superhuman hearing for their distant cries of 'WAAAGH' to reach my ears.

With a resigned sigh, I pulled out my bolt and plasma pistols and sallied forth. I laughed at the oddity of this situation – in all my life, I'd never imagined that I'd be racing _towards_ a horde of orks. I had yet to work out a strategy with which to actually make it through them all and reach the base beyond, and I was thinking about developing one when a familiar gravelly voice broke out over the base's vox speakers, drowning out even the greenskins' thunderous war cries. The sudden noise startled me; I hadn't known our base even had vox speakers. The horde, and the enormous rickety construct in their midst, stopped at the door to hear the message.

"Attention, greenskins," Marrlë bawled, his cheerful tones instantly recognizable even through the crackling distortion of the vox. "I, Marrlë of this band of heretics, happily welcome you to our humble base. As you can see, in anticipation of your arrival, we've prepared you a delicious feast. For starters, we have autocannons."

I watched in astonishment as the two closest dakkaguns on the wall swivelled, shaking and clanking, and began letting loose a blazing stream of gunfire, pounding into the massed orks below. The volume of their howls redoubled, and one of the cannons mounted on the Gargant aimed itself squarely at the barred doors of our base. As it prepared to blow our doors to pieces, Marrlë's voice crackled through the air once more.

"With a side of Chaos sorcery."

The unmistakable figure of Damantin, prowling along the walltop, now faced the Gargant head-on. Pointing towards the ork construct, the sorcerer sent a bolt of green lightning arcing through the air at the joints connecting the arm-cannon to the Gargant's main body, causing the cannon to swivel off-course and fire into the top of our eastern wall instead. Chunks of iron and stone flew through the air, leaving a sizeable crater at the top of the wall, and several Stormboyz immediately made for it.

A flicker of purple and black, closing on the contested position with incredible speed, told me that Rosie was taking care of it. Without waiting a moment longer, the greenskin mob howled and drove against our gate, rattling its immense iron hinges, as the vox boomed out a final time.

"And for the main course, an explosive helping of Khornate! BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

A figure raced out from behind one of the dakkaguns, the chainaxe in his grip already roaring with bloodlust. With a howl of exhilaration, Marrlë sprang onto Damantin's armoured shoulder and _launched_ himself from the wall. I watched in awed terror, certain that he would fall into the seething mob below and be torn apart. My fear was ill-founded; the inhuman strength behind that leap carried the Khornate further than seemed possible, axe drawn back for a massive strike – straight into the Gargant. With a painful-sounding clang, Marrlë hit the front of the construct, his axe burying itself into the rickety metal and holding fast.

While all of this was going on, I was scratching my head, wondering how to get over the wall with all my limbs intact. I could see no obvious route, besides Damantin's bizarre flying disc, and something told me that I didn't want to hitch a ride on that thing. Especially after seeing the eye on its underside blink.

As if on cue, the ground suddenly shook from a tremendous impact, sending me stumbling forward. Regaining my balance, I turned quickly, pistols raised, to see Thurion rising to his feet not five metres away from me, with a bulky apparatus fixed onto the power pack on his back. What sounded like a pair of powerful engines hummed loudly as they cooled, and I understood that this must have been what he had gone back for.

Quickly taking in the situation, Thurion's eyes glittered in amusement when he saw Marrlë scaling the side of the Gargant, using his axe as a climbing pick. "How predictable," he murmured, and in a few quick strides was at my side, looking down at me with the single most unsettling grin I had ever seen. "Ready or not, human, here we go."

"Here we go?" I echoed hollowly, before his gauntleted hand snatched me by the back of my flak vest, the engines mounted on his back engaged, and we were rocketing upwards at a speed humans weren't meant to attain. The wind was knocked right out of me, and I thought I could hear my bones creaking as Thurion hauled me along through the air with him. The sight of the ground rushing away so quickly made me glad I hadn't eaten breakfast that day.

At the vertex of Thurion's skyward charge, I found myself looking down at a metal platform atop the Gargant, and I realized he had flown us directly overtop of the huge construct. We seemed to hang there for a moment, and just as Thurion began his descent, I felt his hand release my jacket, and I fell three metres down, landing on the platform with a resounding clang.

I nearly lost my footing and tumbled over the edge down to the manic horde below, and would have if not for the timely hand that snatched me by the front of my flak armour and yanked me forwards. I fell to one knee, gasping for breath and prodding my ribs to make sure nothing new was broken, and heard my saviour speak.

"Well, well. I didn't know you'd be dropping in."

"Me neither." I choked out a laugh, struggling to my feet. Once I was sure I hadn't shattered my ribcage during the ascent, I looked over at Marrlë and very nearly screamed; a net stuffed full of grenades was bound to his back by a leather strap. He must've raided the armoury for every handheld explosive he could find when he saw the Gargant coming. But this – this was insane, even for him. If even one bullet had hit him on the way up…

He thumped me on the shoulder and pointed his axe at a rather discreet flight of stairs that descended into the belly of the Gargant. "Engine room and control panel are in there, I'm pretty sure. Watch out, though – there's bound to be a couple Mekboys waiting for us."

"Ah." I'd never met a Mekboy before, but I knew what they looked like from Damantin's illusions during shooting practice, and I understood their function in the rough patchwork that was ork society. Without any further ado, Marrlë unstrapped the net full of grenades and shoved it into my arms. I scrambled to get a good hold on it before it blew us both to Terra.

"Here, hold that. I can't fight with it on my back." And before I could protest, the Khornate was charging down the stairs, a battle cry on his lips and Gorelady loudly demanding blood. With a beleaguered sigh, I strapped on the net and followed suit.

Marrlë kicked open the scrap-metal door at the bottom of the stairs, and the two of us burst into the engine room, guns blazing and chainaxe screaming. The closest Mekboy didn't have time to yell as Gorelady drove a vertical line clean through its body. The next ducked backwards just in time as the axe roared through the air, passing where the ork's head had just been. It drew a six-shoota from a holster on its back, but a shot from my bolt pistol ruptured its arm not a half-second before I took off its head with a blast of plasma.

I smiled grimly at the effectiveness of my handguns, each far outstripping my lasrifle in terms of raw power. Of course, the standard-issue weapon was still slung over my shoulder, but here, in the close quarters granted by the engine room, I had much better alternatives at my disposal. With the fighting momentarily lulled, I took a moment to take stock of my surroundings.

The control room was hot, full of crude control panels and flashing lights. All was slightly obscured by a thin haze of smoke that drifted through the air. To keep from breathing that in, I crouched and peered into the haze, trying to get a better view from below.

On the far side of the room, a hunched figure angrily pounded its fist against a set of buttons, glaring into a bright screen. "Zoggin' spiky shiny boyz flyin' around, 'splodin' Skraptung's cannons, hurtin' Skraptung's Gargant! I'll show dem… just got ter get da rokkits locked an' loaded."

Marrlë's spiked boot clanged as he stepped forward. "Oi! The spiky boys are right here, ork. Your krumpin' days are over!"

"Oho! Iz dat so?" The ork turned to face us and rose out of its stoop, rolling its massive shoulders and hefting a wrench as big as Marrlë's chainaxe. Despite our superior armaments, I gulped; this thing was even taller and broader than our Space Marine companions. For his part, my Khornate comrade just grinned, gave Gorelady a rev, and went for it.

I started strafing around the side of the engine room, looking for a chance to get in a clear shot, when I remembered the explosives strapped to my back. Of course – that was why Marrlë had scaled the Gargant. He had planned to blow the machine sky-high, and with all these assorted grenades, odds were he had the explosive power to do it. Now that he was locked in combat with the Big Mek, that task was on me.

Unshouldering the net, I searched for the most unstable-looking piece of machinery in the room. There – on the other side of the haze-filled chamber was a yellow-and-black marked set of levers, likely meant to regulate the power circuitry and workings of the Gargant's many, many guns. Of course, I didn't understand this back then, but it looked – as the orks would put it – 'splodey.

Hesitating not a moment longer, I punted a wayward gretchin out of the way and darted around the combatants, who were busy banging up the floor and low ceiling with their vicious strikes. They seemed evenly matched, the Big Mek and the Khornate, with Marrlë making up for the ork's greater strength with superior agility. The red-headed warrior was a blur, leaping around and dragging his chainaxe in great sweeping arcs, seeming to use it as a center of gravity as much as he did his own body. It made sense – the thing probably weighed half as much as he did. Conversely, the towering ork stayed grounded, its monstrous wrench clanging against everything within reach as it swung with abandon. It hadn't hit Marrlë yet, but one hit would likely be all the Big Mek needed.

Having reached the panel of levers, I plunked the grenade-filled net on top of it, hoping that something wouldn't blow prematurely, and promptly realized that I had no safe way to trigger a detonation. Pulling one of the pins now and trying to run for it would get both me and Marrlë killed. I silently cursed the Khornate's lack of foresight, but stopped short, remembering something that might save the day after all.

I turned back to the fight, pistols ready to let fly, only to find the Big Mek howling in pain, clutching at the bleeding stump where its left leg used to be, and Marrlë lying in a daze against the far wall, half of his face covered in a gigantic red welt. Holstering my pistols, I immediately rushed to grab my comrade. While the ork roared and tried hobbling towards us, I hauled the dazed warrior to his feet, threw the single grenade I had clipped at my belt, and half-ran, half-dragged Marrlë out of the engine room as fast as I could.

Behind us, the world exploded, and the metal platform on which we stood caught fire and tilted dramatically. I staggered, trying in vain to balance myself and Marrlë, and at once the two of us tumbled backwards, head over heels, and tipped off the edge of the platform, just as the world exploded once more, this time below. Fire and shrapnel went soaring in all directions as the mechanical repercussions of the top half of the Gargant's destruction reached its lower half as well.

As we fell, I flailed and thrashed with my free left arm, reaching out for something to grab on to, and found a twisted steel pipe, narrowly managing to curl my fingers around it. One of my nails tore clean off from the friction, and my others began to bleed, slowly slickening the pipe.

Before I even had time to process this agony, I was introduced to a new height of pain as Marrlë caught himself on my opposite wrist, wrenching that arm out of place. I screamed in anguish as the pain burned incessantly through my dislocated arm, the combined weight of my ally and his chainaxe increasing the pressure on my straining left hand. Eyes wide open and teeth grinding against each other, I looked down and met the Khornate's eyes, and I knew I'd never forget the expression on his face.

It was the only moment, in all my time of knowing him, that Marrlë ever looked truly afraid.

Perhaps it was that look of fear that made me decide, inexorably and unbendingly, that I was not going to let go of the pipe. Even if I lost consciousness, even if a bullet pierced my wrist, I would hold on and keep us from falling. The only force that could make me let go would be the will of the Emperor himself.

Well, that, or Damantin soaring up to us on his disc and calling for me to drop down. At first I didn't register it; my hearing had grown dim, and in a half-conscious state I recall curiously feeling like I'd left the stove on. What made this even more curious was that there was no stove for me to have left on, which left me in a state of insensate befuddlement. In retrospect, this was probably my mind blocking out the horrific pain tearing through my shoulders at that moment.

At last, the sorcerer rose up and manually pried me from the pipe, which had been on the verge of giving way. Marrlë and I tumbled onto his flying disc, the ends of the renegade's crimson hair singed black, and burns covering his unprotected back. Forcing myself onto my hands and knees, I felt a cough coming up my throat and nearly puked instead. Opening my bleary eyes, I looked down at the surface of the disc, which then looked back at me.

"Just as planned," it deadpanned.

That was simply too much for my embattled mind to handle, and I promptly slumped forward and slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

When I awoke, I was lying on a medi-table in the garrison's laboratory. A bright ceiling light blinked down at me, causing me to squint and avert my eyes. There beside me was Rosie, arranging some medical supplies, her four arms flickering to and fro in a graceful blur of motion. I groaned, feeling the joints in my arms ache when I tried to move, and she quickly came over, eyes raking across my prone body with concern mixed with something else. I became a little worried.

"What happened?" I asked, wincing at the ongoing burn in my shoulders.

"The orks breached our gate, and we were fighting them inside the walls when the Gargant exploded," she explained, moving to stand above my head and running her claws over my shoulders. The pain quickly turned to bliss, and I closed my eyes and let out a quiet moan. As she went on, her voice grew increasingly velvety. "We thought you were dead at first. The anger and sadness when I thought you were gone – oh, it was ecstatic. You should almost die more often, Fen."

"I'll keep that in mind," I mumbled, accepting this as normal and wondering if I wasn't insane already.

"But then, Damantin saw you and Marrlë hanging up there. Oh, the happiness then-" I gasped, feeling her claws dig into my shoulders, breaking the surface of my skin. Even that felt glorious when she did it. "You were passed out, and I took care of you…" her voice had become a sultry hiss. I opened my eyes to find her straddling me, a terrifyingly suggestive expression on her supernaturally beautiful face.

Her long, barbed tongue trailed out of her lips as hunger filled her eyes. "Look at what you've gone and done. Just being near you is making me hot all over." Her delicate hands slid up my chest while her claws bit into the solid material of the medi-table, gouging through it with ease. I gulped, feeling a bead of sweat run down my forehead. She brought her face close to mine and stared at me with the fathomless black eyes of a man-eating monster.

"Take responsibility."

I emerged from the makeshift infirmary some two hours later with a set of new battle scars, and practically tumbled out of the garrison door. There I found Thurion and Damantin discussing in grave voices while Marrlë sat cross-legged on the ground, his back to me, staring out of the destroyed gate. I cleared my throat, and the Space Marines each acknowledged me with a glance before following Marrlë's gaze out of the door, appearing to see something beyond the dust-swathed wasteland visible to me.

"What are you all looking at?" I asked, quietly annoyed that I couldn't see whatever was so impressive that they had to goggle at it without telling me what it was.

"Nothing yet." It was Marrlë who spoke, and the excitement in his tone clashed sharply with the severity of that of the Space Marines. "Nothing yet, but it won't be that way for long."

"No, it won't," Damantin agreed. "My Augury suggests it will be here in no more than a month."

I was growing frustrated. "What are you talking about?"

"The Gargant, human," Thurion growled, "or rather – what it entails."

"I thought us destroying it entails that we defeated the orks," I said, my frustration now mingling with confusion. "Doesn't it?"

"On the contrary," said the black-armoured marine, crossing his arms grimly. "It means that our darkest hour has yet to come." At my look of total lack of understanding, Damantin gently placed a hand on my shoulder and finally made things plain.

"When a Gargant appears on a planet, it is a sign, Fenwick. A sign that the orks on that world have achieved enough cohesion to build such a construct. And when all the orks warbands on a planet come together under a single banner…"

I understood now, and immediately wished I didn't. "They become a Waaagh," I murmured. Suddenly, the garrison, the walls and the autocannons seemed terribly inadequate. If what Damantin had explained to me was true, it meant that we would be fighting orks not in their dozens or hundreds, but in their thousands, or even hundreds of thousands. We were tough as nails, but to think that the five of us stood any chance at all against such a host was delusional.

So why, then, was Marrlë still smiling?

The red-haired youth turned his head to look at me, and my mouth fell open; half of his face was a shiny purple and swollen to twice its normal size. His right eye was buried under the puffy flesh, and half of his iron teeth were hidden by the heavy bruising on his thin lips. As I gawked at the injury, he spoke.

"You saved my life, Fenwick."

I stopped, suddenly realizing that yes, I had. If I hadn't held on to that pipe, both of us would now be dead, incinerated in the flames of the exploding Gargant. "I suppose I did," I said, walking over to him and laying a hand on his shoulder. He flinched slightly, and I realized that was the arm he had used to keep himself from falling.

I was about to apologize when I heard him chuckle and felt him rap his knuckles on my flak jacket in a gesture of solidarity. Rosie's familiar sweet aura filled the air just before I felt her lean gently on my shoulder. Damantin and Thurion stepped up to either side of us, their presences quietly reassuring and inspiring. For just a moment – one single moment, in this dark millennium of unending pain and hatred – I felt invincible. With all of us bound together by fellowship, steel and a burning desire to live, it seemed unthinkable that any force could overcome us.

Then the dust in the wind blew across my face, making me blink, and the feeling of invulnerability was gone, replaced by a creeping dread. In no more than a month, Damantin had said, death would come in the form of a roaring green tide. We didn't know from where, and we didn't know how many, but all that was certain was that we could not possibly defeat them.

Nevertheless, we had to try.

One month of time to fortify our position. One month to put every gun, wire and explosive in this place to use. One month to dig ourselves in so deep that the orks couldn't dig us out again. The five of us couldn't possibly be ready for them. But then, nothing could prepare the orks for us.

Whatever they had in store for us, we would return a hundredfold.


	11. Stories

**A/N: This is a long one, and I'll admit it's a kind of clumsy way to give these characters more depth. Even so, I hope that by the end of this you'll feel like you've gotten to know our merry band of heretics just a bit better. Thanks to all who read and review! Now, without any further ado, here's the calm before the storm. Enjoy!**

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The following weeks began to blur together after a while. It started out feeling like an entire regiment's supply of sandbags had been dumped onto my chest; we never seemed to stop working. Whether it was finding ways to improve the base, organizing the supplies in the garrison, finding out how long we really had before the ammunition ran out, taking stock of possible explosives from the practical to the downright suicidal or simply sharpening our martial abilities with sparring, target practice and, in my case, private physical training, there was always something to do.

The ramshackle walls and fortifications were stripped down and rebuilt twice as high in a notably less orky manner. I actually caught Damantin leafing through the Uplifting Primer at one point, but elected not to tell him about it. When the fortifications he instructed us in building had a distinctly Imperial Guard-esque flair to them, I smiled secretly.

My shooting lessons with Damantin didn't slow in the least. The sorcerer actually ramped up our practice to twice daily, besides drilling contingencies. I learned to operate damn near every weapon in that armoury. After he got Thurion to teach me to use pistols – which took some convincing, the swaying factor being that if I knew how to defend myself, I would be more likely to be able to provide cover for everyone else and not die uselessly while doing so – the Luna Wolf's mastery with handguns saw to it that I became beyond confident in the use of such weapons.

By the end of his training, I was able to direct semi-automatic bursts of fire at several different foes at once, and while I wasn't and would never be anywhere near his skill level, I could reliably hit my targets while doing so.

Beyond that, I became familiar with autoguns and their variants. I was taught to use flamers, and while I never became quite proficient with them, I could handle one in a pinch. I learned to gauge when my plasma pistol might overheat and to switch weapons in the blink of an eye.

Unfortunately, we soon established that with my missing fingers, heavy guns were out of the question for me. The grip of my thumb, index and little fingers was simply not enough to brace the powerful blasts that such weapons let loose. Nevertheless, I was taught to man the heavy bolters that we set up on the walls, as their mountings made the issue of bracing less prevalent.

We dug through the garrison's explosives and turned the terrain around our base into a death zone. Razorwire and spiked barricades would make progress along the barren plain difficult for any large force to approach all at once. A number of these were already made, others we put together ourselves. Some of what the orks had already done was left in place; there were spikes enough there.

At some point, Thurion returned to the crashed Thunderhawk and returned having scavenged several heavy weapons, along with one very strange-looking gun. It looked like a cross between a bolter and a vox speaker, and Rosie took an immediate interest in it. A Blastmaster, she called it, and took to it with frightening ease. The thing unleashed ear-rending sound waves in controlled blasts, and the Daemonette pouted when I informed her that I wouldn't be going anywhere near her while she was holding it.

I had begun to notice an emergent bond between Damantin and Rosie that hadn't been there before. Though the sorcerer had denounced her to me as a malicious creature whose only purpose was to lure naïve, unsuspecting people to their untimely ends at its claws, I saw him watching her as she joyously practiced using her Blastmaster, and arguing with her over how best to hold the gun. Consciously or not, he now addressed Rosie as 'her' instead of 'it', and I realized that he must know about her state, so to speak. There was something between them that went beyond simply being summoner and servant. Sometimes, when Damantin spoke to her, I could hear what I thought might be the faintest hints of pride in his quiet voice.

As Marrlë's swollen face gradually returned to normal, it became apparent that his right eye was never going to open again. He didn't seem to mind, however, and cheerfully threw himself into the war preparations with unfaltering vigour, seeming to never tire no matter what Damantin put him up to. Now that we weren't wandering around aimlessly, it seemed that the sorcerer had essentially taken over as the leader of our group, and Marrlë accepted this without complaint. He knew that the time for spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment decisions was over, and he excelled at doing things quickly and efficiently. While he was no genius, he turned out to be better than me at putting up fortifications; if I hadn't known better, I might have thought he used to be a Guardsman himself.

Thurion kept his bladesmanship sharp through regular sparring with Marrlë and Damantin, and never lost a single bout. Still, the red-haired renegade put up a fearsome fight each time, and only Thurion's superhuman speed kept him from drowning under the Khornate's storm of blows. Similarly, while Damantin had assured me that he wasn't a bladesman, I wouldn't have known it by watching him spar. The sorcerer's force staff would whirl around him in a dizzying blur as he clashed with the black-armoured marine, closely matched in strength and celerity. Ultimately, though, Thurion's skill always proved the greater.

Of course, the Thousand Son never used his psychic powers during such bouts. That would have made the whole affair trivial.

Of all the findings we made in the garrison, perhaps the most significant one was the tunnel at its very end, leading on a winding course through the earth before surfacing several miles away. To prevent any unwanted visitors sneaking in from below, Damantin closed the earth at the far opening, but left the tunnel opening on our end intact.

It would be, he declared, an escape route, for when things inevitably went wrong. I wasn't quite convinced, seeing as dust shook from the roof of the tunnel whenever one of the Space Marines walked through it, but it was the only way out aside from Damantin's teleportation. Should we find the tunnel collapsed, he said, that would be our recourse.

And, as the days stretched into weeks, and the walls grew higher, and the Waaagh drew nearer, I found that I did not feel out of place anymore. Each morning I sought a mark of Chaos on my body, and each morning breathed a sigh of relief when I found nothing. Those first red nights when I lay on my cot, staring blindly at the ceiling with a Daemonette's arms encircling me, and hearing Marrlë's snoring from down the hall, I wondered if this was proof that I was a traitor regardless of whether I believed in the Emperor or not.

It was on the last night before the storm that I realized what it truly meant.

With Damantin's divination predicting that the Waaagh would arrive in no more than a day, Marrlë had us all gather around a fire in the yard that night, as the red in the sky slowly deepened. He had prepared ork n' squig stew, which was like regular ork stew but much richer and meatier, and we gratefully partook. While there were plenty of rations in the garrison, they were nothing special, and tonight seemed to be a special occasion, judging by the smile on Marrlë's face. Then again, since he was always smiling, it could've been anything. Whatever the case, we listened to him make his grand proposal as we ate.

"Everyone," he began, indicating us all with a broad, dramatic sweep of his arm, "I've asked you all to sit around this fire and eat my strange cooking as thanks, for everything. I guess I should be surprised that we haven't all betrayed and murdered each other, but knowing you like I know you now, I'm really not. I can't think of any gang of people I'd rather fight impossible odds beside."

I saw Rosie smile. Damantin hummed in agreement, while Thurion muttered an objection under his breath at being called a 'gang'. I watched him from the other side of the dancing flame, his face and iron teeth glowing orange in the firelight. By now, I knew better than to think I could guess what he'd say next, so I just held onto my seat and waited. He didn't keep us waiting long.

"Since tomorrow is probably going to be the bloodiest, most hard-fought day of our lives, I wanted to celebrate its coming-"

"Of course you'd see it as a celebratory occasion." Thurion smirked.

"-Wanted to celebrate its coming with a story night!"

"A…what?" I tilted my head curiously, and sensed the others doing the same.

"Something that us Khornates use to keep ourselves from ripping each other apart on the way to a battle. We'll swap stories about the most amazing fights we've been in, and then when we finally get there, we all try and make an even better story out of that!"

I understood now, and I wasn't sure I liked where this was going. Was he expecting me to-

"So, we'll go around the fire, and each of us will tell a story of some kind. Doesn't have to be about fighting – although, those are always the best stories." Sitting closest to Marrlë was Damantin, and so he was called on first to give us a tale.

After a moment spent in thought, the sorcerer nodded solemnly and rose to his feet. He raised a hand, and an image appeared over the dancing flame. It looked like a planet – a planet being skirted by several massive ships, and its surface aflame. "This is Prospero, on the day the Wolves came." I gulped, looking futilely at Damantin's scowling helm. He was gazing at the illusory planet, and I could sense intense emotion beneath that helmet, but couldn't be sure what it was.

"We burned, all of us together, in the crucible of fratricide. We did not want to fight the Space Wolves, and as we learned later, neither did they want to fight us. Through the inscrutable machinations of Tzeentch, all were deceived, and he laughed as Prospero burned."

"We fought bitterly, the Wolves and we, but at last the scale tipped. Leman Russ, the Wolf King, broke our Primarch's spine over his knee, and we were on the edge of total defeat. At the last moment, Magnus spirited us all away into the Warp, along with all that we had built and learned. The Thousand Sons were wounded, but not slain."

"Then, I was only an aspiring sorcerer. I was confounded and enraged by what had happened, and longed for vengeance. So did the rest of my brothers: our hearts grew cold at the treachery dealt to us, though its true extent was yet unknown to us."

"The next betrayal came at the hands of our very own Primarch. He told us to embrace Tzeentch, for our souls had already been bound to the Changer of Ways. Even the most brash and foolish among us knew not to confide in the Great Deceiver, but we were left without recourse. And with each day spent in the hellish turmoil of the Warp, our hatred grew. How could it not have? Our Emperor had ordered us to be killed like dogs, or so it seemed, and Russ had been happy to carry out that order."

"As if that wasn't enough, the tragedy that ensued was perpetrated by one of our legion. Perhaps the greatest sorcerer among us, Ahzek Ahriman, conceived and cast a mighty spell, to prevent the rampant mutations that assailed us in the Warp. He succeeded – at a terrible price. Nearly all of the Thousand Sons, save those psychically gifted enough to resist his spell, were turned to dust; sealed inside their armour like gruesome, undying automatons. Soulless husks of the proud brothers they once were."

"Though his intentions were good, it was still inexcusable. Upon learning that this was once again Tzeentch's perfidious hand at work, Magnus banished Ahriman, and I was one of those who went with him. Seeing treachery at every turn and unable to forgive Magnus for his surrender to Tzeentch, eventually I parted from Ahriman's warband and went my own way. They sought to undo the spell and restore our lost brothers; my goal was not quite as lofty, but it seemed impossible nonetheless."

"Horrified at what had befallen my Legion, I sought with all my might to escape the bond of Tzeentch. Every waking hour, I could hear him, laughing in the back of my skull, tauntingly telling me to go onwards, to keep pursuing my emancipation, and so I did. I read every forbidden tome I could find, walked secretly in cathedrals of the perfidious Imperial Cult, and moved parallel to the Inquisition, watching them do their dirty work and strove to find some form of salvation within it all. My efforts seemed to come to nothing, until at last I made some tangible progress."

His helmet turned to glare at Rosie. The Daemonette's eyes narrowed. "Me?"

"Yes. You, Ruzal'kara. You were proof that all my searching has borne some kind of fruit. When I cast that summoning ritual, and you emerged from the Warp, I knew that something had changed. A sorcerer of Tzeentch does not summon daemons of Slaanesh, and yet, here you are, bound to me as I am bound to the Deceiver. He laughs more quietly now – a sure sign that his hold on me is weakening."

Thurion was staring at him in wonder, as was Rosie. "Do you mean to imply that you are escaping _Tzeentch's_ grasp?"

"It seems impossible, I know," the sorcerer admitted, his gauntleted fists clenching hard enough that the ceramite of his palm ground audibly from the pressure. "It is… unlikely… that Tzeentch would allow me to escape. But I have come this far. Deliverance is close, I know it."

"Careful," Thurion growled. "It is not for nothing that Tzeentch is called the Great Deceiver. You cannot assume that things are as they seem; it is far more likely he is simply toying with you."

"It is a risk I am prepared to take!" Damantin snapped, and I flinched. It was the first time I had heard him really raise his voice. "Even if my damned soul is snatched up by some other god, it does not matter. The point is, I will have defied Tzeentch, and in doing so, opened the way for my lost brothers to do the same!"

A gust of dusty wind caused the firelight to glow against Damantin's armour, and for the briefest moment, his blue livery seemed to shine a burnished red. We sat in stunned silence, looking upon him standing there – a pillar of unyielding faith and fortitude, prepared to give up everything so that his brothers might have a chance, however small, at freedom. From then on, I knew I would never be able to think of him as a traitor again. Chaos sorcerer or not, Damantin was nothing short of a gilded hero in my eyes.

When he sat down again, Marrlë nodded appreciatively and gestured to Thurion. The taciturn warrior did not bother to stand, instead staring into the flame. I thought he might refuse altogether, but then he started, his deep voice easily carrying around the fire and resounding through the air.

"Before the rise of the Imperium," he rumbled, "I was a young member of the Space Marine Legion known as the Luna Wolves. Even then, nigh on eleven thousand years ago, the Space Marines were famed and revered as the unstoppable hammer of the Emperor's might. We were feared as no others were. We, the indomitable host, raced across the stars, fire in our hearts and glory on our minds."

"If the Space Marines were the tip of the spear, then the Luna Wolves were the lightning that lanced forth thereof. All our brothers knew us to be the mightiest and finest warriors of the Great Crusade, and under the guidance of the primarch Horus Lupercal, we grew mightier still. Nothing could stand against us."

"I had the honour of serving under one of Horus's close advisors: Ezekyle Abaddon, a great warrior even by the high standards of our Legion. The foes of the Emperor were many, and we rolled over them like a storm. Our primarch was as a father to us, and Abaddon like an older brother." He paused for a moment, orange eyes staring into the flames. Letting out a deep breath, he continued. "So when Horus turned on the Imperium, we turned with him."

My expression tightened. I knew the next part; everyone did. The story of the arch-traitor, and the great heresy that sundered the Imperium and laid the Emperor himself low.

"We fell upon those we once called our brothers. The wars fought today among the stars are but paltry shadows of the clashes we knew then. Unshakeable in our faith in Horus, we surged on, and on, and on, butchering our way through our former allies. They pleaded for us to see reason, for us to recall our oaths. There was no need – we saw reason enough for them to die, and we fulfilled our oaths to our primarch."

The zeal and unswerving devotion in the black-clad marine's voice made me shiver. He still spoke Horus's name reverently, and it twisted my stomach in revulsion.

"And then, Horus fell. He was broken by the Emperor, and so the rest of us broke – forced to withdraw from that final glorious assault by the death of our guiding light. We lost ourselves in the Warp, and as the future grew hazy and uncertain, a new light appeared. Abaddon declared himself the new Chosen of the Chaos Gods, and slew any who dared to tell him otherwise. With little alternative, the Sons of Horus painted our armour in the colour of the empty void, renamed ourselves the Black Legion, and set forth on the first Black Crusade."

His wolfish eyes flickered to me, and I gulped. "I do not think I need to tell you how that unfolded." I shook my head, prompting Thurion to sigh heavily and continue. "The Crusade was a disaster, of course. Our new leader promised us that we would bring that festering hole, Terra, to its knees, and we never came close to doing so." His jaw clenched. "Upon being repelled, Abaddon immediately set about preparing for a second Black Crusade, which resulted similarly. At this point, my faith in him was shaken."

"And, well… ten more damned Crusades ensued, and by the end of it all, that faith had gone from 'shaken' to 'nonexistent'. At the very peak of the twelfth Black Crusade, when we began losing traction and the forces of the Imperium started to overcome our own, I at last denounced Abaddon for the overzealous incompetent that he clearly was, and left the Black Legion behind."

He chuckled deep in his chest, and the rest of us did too. Though the destruction that Abaddon and his many Crusades had wrought across the galaxy wasn't funny, his perpetual failures were, and the mental image of Thurion calling him an idiot in front of his warriors, while the proof of that assertion raged on all around them, was both hilarious and amazing.

"I fled into Ultramar, knowing that Abaddon's lackeys wouldn't pursue me there. While eluding both my old Legion and the Ultramarines, I realized two important things. The first was that the rogue Legions would never defeat the Imperium – at least, not with that posturing bungler at the helm."

Still biting my lip to keep from laughing at his flippant dismissal of the fearsome Warmaster, I arched an eyebrow. That was something I'd never expect to hear come out of Thurion's mouth – or any heretic's, for that matter. The fact that none of the other heretics assembled around the fire made any move to shout this down made the statement even more interesting.

"The second, which hit me even harder, was that the men I had stood alongside as the galaxy burned; the legion with which I surged across the stars; we Wolves who hunted down a hundred thousand foes together – were gone. Horus's death had weakened them, and they were now nothing more than Abaddon's lapdogs, serving a master who would never, could never come close to Horus's glory. They were Wolves no longer, and unworthy of my allegiance."

"When this realization struck me, I decided that only I, who had seen the degradation of the mighty Legion I once belonged to, could keep that ancient torch lit. And so I, the last Luna Wolf, set forth to find new allies, for whom I could be proud to wield my blade and bolter. And so I search still, seeking those fit to bear the title of Battle-Brothers. Seeking Wolves."

With a start, I realized that I finally understood Thurion. And with that understanding, I could see it all – a disillusioned, nostalgic warrior, ferocious and proud beyond mortal ken. After all, how many could say they had battled their way across the stars under the banner of the Emperor's once-favourite son? I watched him still as he turned his orange-eyed gaze on Rosie, who stretched gracefully and smiled.

"Is it my turn?" At an encouraging nod from Marrlë, the Daemonette began her story, that dazzling smile lingering on her lips.

"It was… the thirty-sixth millennium, I believe. I can't be bothered to remember exactly, but it was sometime around then, because fashion among Imperial nobles was especially hideous."

"It still is," I interjected, which earned me a playful jab in the arm.

"Anyway – on a hive world somewhere in the Calixis Sector, one particular nobleman was totally addicted to a particular series of highly illegal drugs. He also happened to be a secret follower of Slaanesh, and so, with a deal here and a sacrifice there, managed to summon me. Immediately he asked me to give him the same ecstasy that those drugs provided, and I gave him a scratch from one of my claws. That had him convulsing on the floor, and I thought, 'Another job well done, away I go,' but apparently that wasn't good enough for him. No – he wanted some truly nasty chems, which only came from a few very secretive dealers in the Underhive."

"I told him that I could replicate the high provided by the chems he was asking for, even exceed it – but no. He wanted _those_ chems, from _those_ dealers, for some ridiculous reason. Finicky summoners are the worst, honestly." Rosie sighed in displeasure at the memory. "So his order was for me to go creeping into the Underhive like some wayward street urchin and swipe the chems from those dealers."

"By then, I was rather miffed with my treatment, and his absurd declaration that my claws weren't cutting it, so to speak. I pride myself on these claws, you know." I nodded and gave her shoulder a squeeze, eliciting a purr from her and prompting Thurion to roll his eyes and Damantin to cough uncomfortably. "Anyway, I went creeping into the Underhive, silent and invisible, and I was almost ready to just kill my idiot summoner and move on with my existence when I came across these gangers, completely hopped up on the very chems that my master had me searching for. I was about to snag a pouch of the stuff and be off, when I thought of something a bit more fun."

"Oh?" Marrlë's eyes gleamed, and I chuckled nervously. Rosie's definition of fun could get a little scary at times.

"I informed these gangers that, if they could round up some of their friends, there was a decadent household in the Upper Hive that I could get them into, and if they were careful, I could divert any Arbites or PDF they might find on the way. Of course they agreed; the corruption of nobles is infamous among Underhivers, and while the truth behind that infamy varies from noble to noble, in this case the gang I spoke to had struck gold. They didn't even ask questions about just how I was going to get them up there undetected; I suppose they assumed I was some kind of psyker. Not quite true, but I managed to keep up appearances. I do that rather well, don't you think, Fenwick?"

"Er… yes," I concurred quickly, without thinking. I might have considered her words a bit more carefully, but the feeling of one of her claws gliding over the back of my neck hastened my agreement. Flashing me a sweet smile, she continued.

"Of course, me being me, I made good on my word. They encountered no difficulties rising through the hive; I cleared the way for them and pointed them in the right direction if they looked lost. It took some time, but they ascended all the way up the hive, to the noble's enormous house, overlooking the entire city. When they rose above the layer of smog that choked the lower levels, I swear those gangers took in the first gulps of clean air they'd had in years, and nearly keeled over in shock." She smirked at the memory, gesticulating with all four of her arms to better illustrate her words to us.

"They arrived at the noble's house, guns blazing, and when they killed him, I was forced out of the Materium – for a bit. Of course, things came together rather smoothly after that. The Arbites and PDF found a lead and made it up to the house. They found not only the gangers, but the chems on them as well. A little bit of psychic prompting was all it took for one of the Arbites to try the chems, and from there, it began to spread through the police force.

The Arbites began raiding the Underhive to get at these rare drugs, which eventually prompted the people there to strike back. Civilians got involved in those exchanges, riots broke out, and it wasn't long before the entire hive city was consumed in wild, wonderful Chaos. And all because of little old me." Rosie flowed to her feet and gave an exaggerated yet graceful bow, which was met with genuine accolades from Marrlë and more sardonic applause from Thurion. Damantin and I remained silent. I couldn't bring myself to congratulate her for turning an Imperial city to Chaos, no matter how much I liked her; Damantin, it seemed, had another reason for his silence.

"The Daemonette who corrupted the city and the one who recounted doing so are not one and the same, I think," said the Sorcerer. "You have changed, Ruzal'kara."

Her merriment dulled as she grew thoughtful, reaching over to touch my hand. "I have," she agreed, gazing into the flame just as Thurion had. "I wonder if I can truly be called a Daemonette anymore. Emotion fuels me as ever, but… not quite like it did before. I can appreciate things other than wild excess." Her black eyes narrowed. "How long have you been aware of this, Damantin?"

"Marrlë has yet to tell a story," was his non-answer, and I repressed a snicker at his evasiveness. The crimson-haired warrior nodded emphatically and rose to his feet, resting Gorelady's head against the ground. He grinned at each of us in turn, and, pushing a red forelock away from his one good eye, began.

"This story actually takes place before I met Gorelady. You all know how that happened, right?"

"You've told us how that happened at least five times," Thurion muttered. "Yes, we know." The rest of us nodded. Not to be discouraged, Marrlë drew himself up and went on. "The story of how I met _That Radical Dame_ – do you know that one, too?"

Thurion opened his mouth to say something, but I piped up before he could. "I haven't," said I, and assiduously ignored the glare shot my way by the Luna Wolf. Unsurprisingly, this made the red-haired renegade smile, and that was all he needed to launch into his tale.

"There I was, stuck in the snow-blasted mountains of Xurunt, with nothing but my wits and my axe."

"So nothing but your axe," Rosie quipped, and Marrlë flashed her his iron teeth as she giggled.

"My warband was nowhere to be found. It might've been that they escaped, or maybe they were taken out by the members of the Inquisition that happened to turn up –"

"Or perhaps they grew sick of your unrelenting cheer and went to find something to mope about."

"Or that. Anyway, I was stranded up in the mountains, fending off the ferocious native predators of Xurunt. It was cold, and I was starting to wonder if I'd actually make it down alive. But then, in the distance – a flame! I thought it was a campfire at first, but then the flame started to move further up the snowy slope, towards an old ruin. Being pretty much stuck up there until the snow faltered, I headed over to find out what was going on."

"Now, back then, I wasn't quite as scary as I am now. I mean, my hair was red, but my eyes weren't, and I had a nice set of flat, white teeth – just like you've got, Fen." I squinted across the fire, trying to imagine Marrlë without his spiked iron teeth and crimson eye. The resolution of that mental image was surprisingly normal-looking; I could easily picture him in a flak vest and fatigues.

"As you can imagine, I didn't look terribly conspicuous. Also, this was the axe I owned before I met my Gorelady. Sharp and strong, but much less gaudy. I decided I was feeling lucky, and followed the light to its source. Just my luck – it was an Interrogator from the Ordo Xenos on her first assignment!"

"Normally, I would've just fought her and her five-man retinue on the spot, but this once, survival instinct won out. Fortunately, I spied her rosette sticking out of her coat pocket, so I managed to cobble together a cover story as I came out of the snow with my hands up. 'Don't shoot', I said. 'I'm with the Ordo Hereticus.' They seemed pretty suspicious, and rightly so, but after a tense moment they lowered their guns and asked me what I was here for. 'Top secret', I said, 'but it's got to do with those ruins up there.' What a coincidence, their orders are to investigate those same ruins. I was lucky she didn't have a psyker with her, or I'd have been in real trouble."

"In we all went, into the depths of the mountaintop ruins, and they were crawling with all sorts of weird metal stuff. I figured that the Interrogator must've been hunting for alien technology, and I told her that I'd come looking for a heretek, so our goals aligned. At first, I thought it seemed like a passable cover story. But then, as we went deeper and deeper into the dark, it started to look like I had inadvertently hit the nail on the head."

"Green lights on the walls, our enemies taking on a distinctly skeletal mien and metal bugs crawling across the floor. Two of the others died from traps and Dark Mechanicus machines, leaving us five trudging uncertainly through what was looking more like a tomb with each passing hour. I was having the time of my life – secretly, of course. I pretended to be just as miserable and scared as everyone else, with some difficulty."

I had only ever seen Marrlë frightened once, and it had been at the prospect of dying _outside_ of a fight. To feign terror for an extended period of time must have had him seething inside.

"So, three days in, we finally reached the bottom of the ruins. A huge laboratory, spanning the entire floor, stretched out before us. We could see servitors shuffling around, glowing green tubes implanted in their bodies, at which point I was pretty sure that I'd come up with the perfect cover story. Creeping through the laboratory, we found him, or her, or it, hunched over a table, stripping metal sheets off the body of what looked like a necron."

"Not a moment later, the heretek turned around, leveled a gauss cannon at us, and tore the goon to my left in half. Combat servitors sprung to life around us, and while the Interrogator and her two remaining flunkies started shooting at the servitors, I charged the heretek. A whole bunch of mechadendrites popped out of its back and we went at it, the two of us."

"It was one of the best fights I'd ever had; there were flames scorching through the air over my head, plasma and las blasts riddling the ground near my feet. I was jumping around as best I could, trying to avoid the point-blank hail of death. Bastard actually shot a hole right through my bicep." Marrlë flexed his arm to show us; sure enough, there was an old burn mark in the center of his upper arm.

"Slowly but surely, I hacked off every one of the heretek's mechadendrites, but tripped over a power cable. He actually had the gauss cannon up to my face, and that would've been the end of me if the Interrogator hadn't blown his head off with a well-aimed plasma shot. When I looked back, I saw her standing alone among the dead goons and broken servitors, plasma pistol still smoking."

"We nodded at each other, then it was back up the ruins, to the mountaintop, where a ship was waiting for us. Well, for her, but she told them I was an Interrogator too, so they let me on. I asked her to drop me off at the nearest port, and she talked the captain around to it. When we arrived, I got ready to vanish, when she asked me if I was actually with the Inquisition."

"I admitted I wasn't, and she laughed and told me to get lost. According to her, letting me go was thanks for helping her out on Xurunt, and if she ever saw me again, she wouldn't think twice about putting a plasma round through my head for the crime of impersonating an Inquisitorial agent. Then she was gone, and I found myself wishing I'd spoken to her a bit more." An uncharacteristically melancholic sigh issued from our current storyteller, who made to sit back down.

"Did you ever see her again?" I asked, before he could. He paused, and met my eyes with a mischievous smile.

"Yes," he said, and left it at that. "I'll tell you _that_ story if we survive. There's incentive for you, as if you already didn't have enough." I laughed, until I realized that they were now expecting me to tell a story, and was at a complete loss. Three pairs of inhuman eyes and one impassive helm stared at me across the leaping fire, and I tried to make myself as small as possible, which resulted in the stares intensifying. A nervous chuckle came unbidden from my lips, and I reached up to scratch my head sheepishly.

"Um… I don't have any stories like the rest of you have. I haven't been in any glorious battles or gone on great quests or had life-changing epiphanies. Or brought Chaos to hive cities, thank the Emperor." Rosie laughed and swatted me on the arm. Thurion opened his mouth, and I winced pre-emptively, but he was cut off by Marrlë.

"No matter," he declared, cheerfully dismissing my protests with a wave of his hand. "A good story doesn't have to have quests or epiphanies or battles – although those last ones are always the best."

"Indeed," seconded Damantin. "A story is good if you care, and succeed at making your listeners do the same."

That didn't make me any more confident. Still, though, they'd shared their stories, and I owed them one as well, regardless of whether it was good or not. Swallowing my trepidation, I frantically dug through my memories and yanked out the first coherent one I could grasp. I almost threw it back and continued digging, but the combined intensity of their expectant stares was enough to dissuade that cowardice, and I went for it.

"Near the core of the Calixis Sector, there's a small, miserable hive world called Fenksworld. Looks decent on the surface, but when you add up all the little details and glance under the covers, you realize the truth of the matter is a lot more unpleasant than first impressions might suggest. For one, the Chaliced Commissariat presence there is basically nonexistent. The PDF exist to keep out threats from beyond, but the real danger is what's beneath.

Under the spires and burgs of Nova Castillia, there are two lesser hives, kept in squalor through servitude to the greater one above. The first, Magnagorsk, is bad enough; hazardous, thankless industrial work on overdrive. Ash fumes in the air and awful heat, it's the first level of hellish underhive. The second, Volg, is even worse. Nothing but toxic slums, waste, and darkness down there. Murder and worse are everyday occurrences."

"You'd think the awful quality of life down there would be bad enough, but actually, Fenksworld is riddled with Chaos cults from the highest spires to the lowest hellholes. Not enough for the Imperium to declare it a lost cause, but just enough so that the collective nastiness of the whole world rises some more."

"Most commonly, it'll be the Arbites who deal with that sort of thing, but when something a bit bigger spreads, witch hunters from the Inquisition will descend into the dark to root out cults before they grow dangerously large. For the rest of us on Fenksworld, these secret cults and Inquisitorial ventures have become a part of life, to be ignored as best as possible. Sometimes, though, you become involved without realizing it."

I saw the others shifting to get comfortable, mild interest on their faces. Slightly emboldened by this, I continued.

"I lived on one of the lowest levels of Nova Castillia. It wasn't pretty, but better than the subordinate hives by several orders of magnitude. Didn't have any brothers or sisters growing up – not that I knew of, anyway. One kid's expensive to maintain as is. I did have a good friend, though, who lived further up the hive."

"My dad had worked for her dad at some point before I was born, and they'd remained friends ever since. That's how I was introduced to Mava, when I was only five or six years old. From the moment I first met her, I remember thinking that her smile was too bright for the frakked world we lived on. That's what first got me thinking about leaving."

"There are two ways off of Fenksworld. The first is to become a Rogue Trader and strike out across the stars on your own course. The first way is also quite impossible. The second is to join the Imperial Guard. Though it isn't nearly as common as some other hive worlds, Fenksworld does recruit people to serve in the guard. Recruits are usually iron-eyed killers from the Volg hive, but folk from above can get in too, if they prove their worth.

I talked to Mava about this, and we made a pact – when we were old enough, we'd join the guard and ship out of that miserable world. Every time we met, we'd spend a while in the alley behind my parents' hovel, firing on imaginary targets. Played Guardsman and Xenos a lot. Most of the time, I was the xeno." Marrlë snickered.

"We stayed close for years, but our parents fell apart. Her dad hired a different person in place of mine, and we got poorer while they remained relatively successful. Seeing each other got tougher, but we held on to our hope of leaving. At one point, it had been several months since I'd seen her last, and I wondered if she'd forgotten about me. Then, on my doorstep, I found a letter addressed to me. Mava was inviting me to come see her for her twelfth birthday, which happened to be that very afternoon."

I smiled ruefully. It had been one of the happiest moments of my childhood, and though it might not seem like much, things like that stand out in a life of squalor. I recalled showing my parents; my dad forcing a smile for my sake; my mum's telling me to get ready, Mava'd be expecting me soon.

"I ran out of the house, ran all the way up through the winding streets of the hive, through the yards and under the highways and down the alleys, and reached her street." The image returned to the forefront of my memories, so vivid and haunting even after all this time. "Normally, that street was quiet. That day, it was loud – so loud. I saw Adeptus Arbites establishing a perimeter, heard the bang of a bolter going off and the scream that followed. I felt, you know, that sick feeling that rises through you, until you're paralyzed, because you don't know what's happened but you're certain it's nothing good."

"I watched from a distance as a man in power armour, with a red augmetic eye and a smoking bolt pistol, stepped out of that house. He looked both ways, shouted something to the Arbites, and started off down the road in my direction. I stood there, frozen, as the man came closer and closer, until he was looking down at me. The expression on his face was unreadable; it was like looking into a cloudy night sky. But somehow, I knew that this man had killed more people than I had ever met in my life, and if I gave him any reason to, I would join that number."

"He studied me, I guess, for a bit, and finally asked if I'd known the people who lived in the house he'd come out of. I couldn't lie to those eyes; I told him that I'd come for my friend's birthday, and asked if I could see her. Then I saw something like pity on his face, and he told me to go home and forget about her."

I heard Marrlë suck in air through his teeth. An exhalation issued from Damantin's mask, and Rosie gently squeezed my hand. For once, Thurion was silent, watching my face; now it was my turn to stare into the flames, as the others had. There was some strangely comforting about looking into the blaze, perhaps because nothing looked back. It cleared the mind, wiped away the building grief in my chest, and I was able to go on, though my voice had become decidedly more bitter.

"I ran home in tears. I wasn't blind; that man had been an Inquisitor, and my friend was as good as dead. Rumours circulate and die quickly in a hive, and within a few days we knew the story. Mava's father's pub had been a front for a Chaos cult. They had been on the verge of creating a daemonhost, when the Inquisition had caught wind of it and stormed the pub. Following that, they came to his house, and the rest is history."

My eyes hardened, and the fire seemed to grow cold. "I never did find out what happened to Mava; whether she was spirited away by the Ordo Hereticus, or sent down to the Volg, or… whatever else might have befallen her. But I decided, no matter what, that I'd join the Guard and escape the nightmare that spawned us for both our sakes. I signed on, and was shipped out with a bunch of conscripts from the same planet. A tough bunch, but they'd never fought xenos for real, and when we landed here, it made all the difference in the end."

"So here I am. I've traded one world of filth, dire straits and heretics for this one, it seems. Only as far as heretical company goes, I think I could have been a lot less fortunate." I looked around at each of them, and at last understood what that feeling when I stared up at the ceiling in the dark was. "I owe you all my life, and I've been doing my best to even that debt. And if we…" My breath hideously caught in my throat. I forced the words out, and to my immense relief, they sounded sure and honest. "If we die tomorrow, or if we find some way off this forsaken planet, I want you all to know I'm glad I met you."

We sat in warm, thoughtful silence. No further words were needed; on that night, sitting around Marrlë's fire and eating his special stew, we five bared our souls to each other, and glimpsed the grim darkness of the 42nd Millennium through each other's eyes - dark indeed, but there were stars scattered amidst that void. For a short while, the red, dust-filled night sky didn't seem quite so bleak, and I felt the sentiment pass around us. I looked at them and saw heresy, but beyond that, I saw the same hope that I myself harboured, only clad in different armour.

At last, our bowls were empty, and the fire burned low. This time, Thurion offered to take first watch, and the rest of us gratefully headed for the garrison door in search of sleep. I looked back for a moment at the high walls of our base, and at the Luna Wolf standing guard atop those walls. It was not foolhardy confidence that filled me, but relief: knowing that we had done everything we could, and that we would fight our hardest and make the orks pay dearly for every step forward.

When I stepped inside the garrison, Damantin bid me goodnight with a quiet nod, Marrlë with a brotherly punch in the shoulder, and Rosie with a long, passionate kiss. The daemon warned me not to die or she'd haunt my soul in the Warp, and instead of blanching in terror at the notion, I laughed, assured her I'd do my best, and headed off to bed. As I pulled the covers over my body, I felt warmer and more comfortable than usual, and spent little time staring at the dark ceiling before falling asleep. Until now, I had stood by necessity alongside heretical allies; tomorrow, I would fight by choice beside friends.


	12. WAAAGH

I awoke before dawn to a tremor rattling my spine as I lay in my cot. Propping myself up on my elbows with a groan, I rubbed my eyes and saw Marrlë standing in the doorway, a hungry gleam in his single crimson eye, and dressed in carapace armour from the neck down. I was about to ask what was happening, but realized what it was before I could. That spiky grin of his stretched from ear to ear. As I slid out of bed, he stated the obvious. "They're coming."

"I figured," I muttered as I slipped into the crumpled uniform at my bedside and threw on my flak armour. Marrlë vanished from the doorway without another word, and I was quick to follow – though not before making sure I had everything together. Combat knife, check. Flamer, check. Long las, check. Autogun, check. Forearm-mounted bolt pistol, check. Ammunition? In spades. Not nearly enough, but every one of my pockets was stuffed with ammo, and my new backpack was bulging with it. It also held an autopistol, a laspistol, and my old lasrifle. I had packed them in case my other guns jammed, but I doubted I'd be alive long enough to need them. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself and walked out of the garrison.

Upon entering the courtyard, I saw them all, standing on the wall, gazing through the windows we had made. The whole façade, while rather low-tech, had been piled high with sandbags, concrete slabs, and practically any solid material we could get our hands on, with stacks upon stacks of ammunition lying about the walltop within easy reach. The so-called windows were simply openings in this wall of hard scrap. Marrlë, Damantin, Thurion and Rosie each stood at one of these, their backs turned to me. I hurried up to join them, and took my place between Thurion and Damantin, staring into the dust clouds drifting across the wasteland. I could feel the vibrations from before traveling up the wall, and heard a distant thundering – the marching feet of thousands of war-hungry greenskins. My lips grew dry in anticipation, all while the sounds of the coming warhost grew louder and louder.

With a derisive snarl, Thurion hefted the missile launcher beside him, lazily took aim, and let a frag missile loose into the distance. It sliced away through the air with an appalling silence, and I held my breath for the entire duration of its flight. When it vanished into the dust, and the silence yet hung in the air I thought for a moment that he had missed them altogether, before realizing that the distant marching had stopped as well. And then-

 ** _WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!_**

The roar came blasting across the barren land and hit me like a missile of their own, instantly taking the place of Gorelady's revving as the most fearsome sound I had ever heard. I staggered back, my helmet slipping off my head and bouncing back down the stairs whence I had ascended. My breath returned in a gasp, and my grip on my lasgun tightened until my fingers hurt from the pressure. Despair filled me, churning in my stomach and rising into my chest; whatever had made that noise was not an enemy that could be fought. They would roll over us like a tide, and no amount of resistance would slow them, much less deter them. We were doomed. I took another step back, breath quickening, head spinning, and yelped: something had smacked into my shoulder, hard.

I looked over to see Marrlë, his fist still outstretched from the punch he had given my arm and a stern expression on his face. I searched for meaning in his eye, and he spoke before I could demand an explanation. "What's the matter, Fen? Getting cold feet before we even start, over that little whimper?"

I almost yelled at him, when I realized that in punching me he had brought me back from the edge of hysterical panic – my breathing had almost returned to normal, and my grip on my lasgun had loosened. Letting out a rattling breath, I shook my head and grinned. "Never."

"That's the spirit, Guardsman!" He cheered and gave me a thump on the back, returning to his spot at the window and looking across at the others. "Come on, let's show them what we think of that empty croak." Filling his chest with air, Marrlë clenched his fist around Gorelady's throttle – which was still the second most fearsome sound I had ever heard – and roared his response. "BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

Thurion wasn't far behind, firing a second missile into the dust. As the thunder of the charging orks filled the air, he drowned it out with a roar of his own. "Kill for the Living, Kill for the Dead!" he boomed, using the ancient war cry of the Luna Wolves. His mighty lungs carried the proclamation far and held it in the air, even as the sound of the coming orks grew louder.

With a twirl of his staff, Damantin pointed the force weapon's ornate tip at the unseen foe and blew the dust aside. Now we could see them: the green tide, numbering in their hundreds if not thousands. While daunting, it didn't seem like such an impossible number – until one considered that this was merely the Waaagh's vanguard. The host to follow would be many times larger, and they would be upon us before we could despatch all the orks currently racing across the barren plain towards us, if we even made it that far. The sorcerer didn't appear daunted in the least, and I had to guess that that old line about knowing no fear was more than just a saying. All of a sudden, my consciousness was filled with a vast chill, like being plunged into deep, dark water, and from that fathomless dark came a terrible proclamation that was at once a whisper and a howl.

 _All is Dust._

The entire front line of orks stopped, shocked by this fiendish psychic challenge, and were at once brutally trampled by their frenzied comrades in their rush to reach us. They, however, suffered an even worse fate; in their midst, a huge burst of vermilion lightning and obsidian flame rippled through the orks, lancing through them and melting the flesh from their bones. I had thought Damantin's powers before were worthy of awe, but this was another tier of devastation entirely.

Yet even such a horrific and mighty attack as that was only a small dent in the green tide, and they came ever onward. Instead of a battle cry, Rosie gleefully fired up her Blastmaster and sent a sonic beam lancing into their midst, causing those hit by the wave of sound to crumple like beaten metal. Heads exploded and bodies were twisted by the sheer force behind that noise, and ever on they came.

With a flick, I set my long las to overcharged mode and stepped up to the window. As I looked down the sights, aiming for a particularly large and ugly Nob, I felt a familiar feeling pushing down any residual panic in my gut, spreading through my limbs and filling me with warmth. I laughed aloud as I recognized it, from when I'd driven my chainsword through the one-armed Boy's mouth: good, solid, human hatred, the kind the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer so zealously went on about for pages on end. Whenever I had leafed through it before today, that part had always struck me as the most curious. Besides the blatant lies about the strength of standard-issue gear and the general deadliness of the Imperium's many enemies, I had always found the constant ranting and advocacy of hatred to be both unnecessary and useless. What good was mere hatred in a battle? Now, as I took one of the Nob's eyes and saw it howl in pain, I knew: this hatred was fire, this hatred was passion, but above all else, this hatred was human. I poured every ounce of that righteous human hatred I had into that shot and every shot thereafter, and roared a battle cry of my own as loud as my human lungs could voice it.

"For the Emperor!"

None of my companions protested. Imperium and Chaos were forgotten as we worked in unison to mow down our foes before they crashed against our walls like a clamoring wave of flesh and steel. I lunged behind a heavy bolter and unleashed it on the Waaagh, scraping all along their front with explosive, fully automatic fire. Thurion, deadly accurate as ever, picked Stormboyz out of the sky with one of our full auto-capable autocannons, shooting each one down before they could clear our walls. Damantin shouldered a lascannon and sent crippling shots into warbikes and warbuggies as they raced along towards us. While Marrlë was – much to his chagrin – unable to engage in melee combat without leaping over the wall and being instantly slaughtered by the slavering mass of orks, he had begrudgingly accepted multilaser duty, and I thought I saw the tiniest of smiles on his face as he sent powerful rapid-fire las blasts lancing into the advancing horde. All the while, Rosie continued happily firing away with her sonic weapon, each strike hammering a wave of resounding doom against our enemies' ranks. And still they came.

If we hadn't voiced our battle cries, if Marrlë hadn't punched me in the shoulder, if we hadn't bared our souls to each other around the fire, I might have broken file and ran. But I was on fire within, the Emperor's flame blazing through my veins and out through the barrel of my lasgun. For my friends and for my own sake, I held the line, and we stood unyielding as the green tide finally crashed against our wall. The façade shook, and the gates below us groaned in protest, but our guns were strong and our wills were stronger. I quickly stepped out from behind the heavy bolter and cocked my flamer, and along with Marrlë's multilaser, we turned the front of the gates into a focused kill zone, forcing the orks to fan out and seek another way in.

Dozens raced for the eastern wall, seeing a flaw in the stonework from where the Gargant's cannon had blasted apart a section of the wall. We had repaired it, but the stone there held more loosely than elsewhere. Before the orks could reach it, though, Thurion had turned on the thrusters in his jump pack and soared across the wall in a single rocket-propelled bound. He landed among the group of orks with such force that those nearest to him were knocked off their feet, and those further staggered back before gathering themselves and charging. Marrlë huffed jealously, quietly bemoaning his inability to meet the orks hand-to-hand. I might've chuckled if I wasn't busy scorching through the Slugga Boyz below us, the terrifying wrath of the flamer licking forth and covering them in deadly washes of burning promethium.

As usual, the Luna Wolf was doing a masterful job of turning everything around him into mincemeat, power sword flickering to and fro with inhuman grace and celerity. A dozen orks were slain in as many seconds, falling to blade and bolter, and another two dozen rose to replace them. Just as it seemed as if Thurion would be overwhelmed by the massing monsters, his jump pack awoke once more, sending him flying back over the wall in time to bisect a Stormboy in midair. He landed near us and picked up Damantin's discarded lascannon while the Thousand Son hurried to man the autocannon on the far wall. Since the sorcerer usually moved so little when he fought, it was easy to forget that he was capable of physical feats rivaling his black-armoured Battle-Brother's. He wasted no time in reminding us of this, gunning down the gathered orks below the eastern wall with quiet, brutal efficiency. Those that escaped his cannonfire fell to their knees, howling as their minds were bent and broken by the sorcerer's psychic might.

We ripped into them so furiously, so violently, so relentlessly that it seemed for a moment as if we might actually overcome them. I felt the beginnings of a misguided smile on my lips, before the boom of a distant gun and the explosion of the wall next to me dispelled any illusions I had. I was sent tumbling back as the window and part of the upper wall collapsed, overturning the mounted heavy bolter. Ears ringing, I pushed myself to my feet in time to see Thurion firing his lascannon at the source of the destruction: an ork trukk, trundling quickly towards us. More trukks were coming into view, and along with them, Shoota and Loota Boyz, carrying heavier guns than the initial charge of orks. Our troubles would ramp up significantly once those arrived.

Damantin's psychic blasts ripped across the battlefield, decimating the ork infantry, but there were always more to replace them. Within five minutes the reinforcements were within maximum firing range, and the hail of bullets started banging against the wall while shots streaked wildly above us. Feeding a new chain of ammunition into the heavy bolter, I hauled it back onto its mounting at another window and answered the orks in kind. The storm of bullets was such that I was essentially hiding behind the gun, and even that wasn't quite enough to fully protect me; I felt bullets ripping past my flak jacket and zinging off the top of my helmet. One caught me full on in the leg, and I grunted and gritted my teeth as pain pulsed through me. Driven ever onwards by my righteous hatred, I let out a savage yell that wouldn't have been out of place coming from Marrlë's throat and clenched my finger around the trigger twice as hard as before.

The sky grew redder as the hours progressed. Rockets tore chunks from our wall and we answered in the same language. The barricades slowed the progress of infantry and light vehicles, leaving them vulnerable, and many unfortunate orks discovered that the ground they walked was riddled with explosives of varying potency. More than one trukk went up in flames, blasted apart after rolling over a mine. Hundreds of orks fell, and hundreds more came from the dust.

We held our position against that endless horde for another day. Nearing the end, the Space Marines' mighty armour was looking scratched and beaten, much of their coloured livery having been shaved off by bullets. Well-armoured as they were, they could afford to stand in lines of fire that the rest of us could not, and their boldness was starting to wear on them. Rosie had been shot several times, but her injuries healed swiftly, and didn't seem to bother her while they lasted. At one point, a bullet hit Marrlë right in the mouth, and for a horrible moment I'd thought the Khornate was done for, until he turned his head to face me with a grin and showed me the round he'd caught in his iron teeth.

At last, Damantin psychically signalled to us that it was time to abandon the walls, and looking out at the enemy, still innumerable and bearing forth more heavy guns and vehicles than ever, I had to concur. The dust-shrouded silhouette of another Gargant in the distance was the clincher; I abandoned the heavy bolter, snagging the single remaining bolt chain and limping down the stairs as fast as I could. I had wrapped a hasty bandage around my leg, but it hurt terribly every time I put weight on it. Several of the guns I had carried into battle had been discarded, their ammunition completely spent. The flamer had run out of fuel, and both the autogun and the long las had actually jammed; I'd stripped the latter of its telescopic sight and shoved that into my backpack.

As the pounding thrum of the bolter and multilaser died down, the sound of the Waaagh grew louder, until it was a deafening roar from ten thousand tusked mouths. I hobbled down the stairs as fast as my wounded leg would carry me, and met the others at the garrison door. Unnaturally quick as she was, Rosie was the first inside, vanishing down the hallway towards the tunnel at the very back of the building. Marrlë seemed on the verge of turning and facing the horde, until Damantin shoved him through the open door. Only Thurion remained on the wall. I watched as his nearly-dead jump pack blasted him up one last time to intercept another Stormboy, rocketing towards us over the wall. I also saw what he could not: a stray rokkit streaking through the air, straight for that airborne Stormboy. My eyes widened in horror, and I cried a warning, but it was useless, and even if he heard me, it was far too late. Space Marine, ork and rokkit all collided in midair, resulting in an explosion of charred green flesh, metal and ceramite. Damantin stepped in front of me, shielding me from shrapnel with his hulking armoured frame, and I watched under his arm as Thurion plummeted to the courtyard, landing on his side with an awful noise.

I couldn't believe it when, even after that, the black-armoured marine started to pull himself up, supporting his weight on his deactivated power sword. He faced sideways to us, blood streaking across the side of his face that we could see. He turned his head to catch Damantin's eye, and I gasped: half of the marine's face had been reduced to a seared mess of muscle and bone, half of his hair burned away and his teeth visible through no-longer-extant lips. He rose to his feet, his body still facing sideways, and nodded.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Damantin return the nod; then, as the gates burst open and the howling mob surged into the courtyard, the Thousand Son plucked me off the ground, tucked me under one arm and raced into the garrison after Rosie and Marrlë. I was dimly aware of Thurion running after us as bullets filled the air, of the hallways and chambers blurring past as Damantin ran through the building with inhuman speed. I heard the door blow off its hinges, heard the myriad booted feet thundering after us, heard the cries of "WAAAGH!" echoing along the halls and through the thick-walled rooms. And then, when we reached the tunnel, I lifted my head and saw Thurion stop, just behind us. At the very entrance of the passage, he stood, and met my stare with his one good eye.

I saw him then, that Luna Wolf; saw him stand tall, pride and fortitude beyond measure; saw him flourish his indomitable blade, in salute and in farewell; saw the full extent of the damage that had been wrought upon his mighty body, and knew that he would not be following us, that we would never see him again.

Thurion smiled, and I screamed.

Damantin would not look back, though, and neither would the warrior in black. The Space Marine bearing me away raced onwards, while the other one turned and faced the endless tide of orks by himself. I tried to protest, but my voice had escaped me, and Thurion's receding silhouette grew dimmer and dimmer, until it was lost forever in the darkness of the tunnel.


	13. Litany of Brotherhood

**A/N: This is the first chapter not narrated by Fenwick. Kinda short, but I hope it'll be a nice change of pace nonetheless. As always, thanks to those who read and review. Enjoy!**

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I meet with the Stormboy in midair, and where there should be blood and meat, there is blinding light and a deafening blast. My jump pack fails me, and I am flung to the ground in tatters. Blood paints the courtyard – both my enemy's and my own. I am wounded, badly wounded, though I have yet to take a moment to discern the extent of my injuries. I try and pull myself up, and find myself strangely unbalanced.

Ah, now I see.

Shoving the tip of my sword into the earth, I force myself to rise. There is pain, tremendous pain, but I push it aside. It is nothing to me; I am a Space Marine, and it will take more than this to lay me low. I see my Battle-Brother standing near the garrison door, shielding the young Guardsman with his body, and in spite of all this pain, I spare a moment of pity for the fragile human. Yet within that pity is a tinge of admiration. He cannot fight as me and my Brother can, nor even as well as that red-haired jester, but still he fights. Our bravery is programmed, the result of genetic enhancement and countless years of battle; his is born of nothing more than his beating heart and his unyielding faith, and still he fights. He is doomed and knows it, yet still he fights.

As I rise to my feet, I decide to be like him. I will be like the Guardsman, and fight with courage deeper than the fearlessness intrinsic to the Space Marine, with strength of will drawn from a desire neither selfish nor malicious. I catch my Brother's eye, and he sees what I know, what I have decided. I, too, see the man beneath that ornate helm, the hero whose dreams are not yet dust. It is for him that I fight. For him, the Guardsman, the Khornate fool and even that vile daemon, I fight.

The orks have breached our gate; they come now, the undisciplined, bloodthirsty horde, crawling over each other like insects to draw blood, to be the first to enter the fray. They live to fight, and I will give them a fight to die for. But not now. Not yet. My life will be over soon, but it will not be given cheaply, or in vain. My Brother lifts the Guardsman beneath his arm, and they flee. I run after them, but not in mad flight – rather, I seek a tenable position, where I can stand and meet the foe in numbers that will not flow over me in an instant. In my mind, I mark my destination, and accept that it will be the place where I die.

The garrison blurs around me as I race through it. I stay hot on my Brother's heels, until he is on his way into the tunnel; then, once I am sure of their escape, I stop. I see the Guardsman's face twist in confusion, despair, and finally horror as he realizes what I have decided. My inhuman eyes see them racing into the dark – the Daemon, the Fool, my Brother and the Guardsman – and I smile. The smile is not for them, but for me, as I realize that I will die with my purpose fulfilled. All this time I had been seeking companions worthy of my blade, and in my arrogance, failed to see that I had already found them.

With the warmth of this knowledge resting in my black heart like a single dying ember in a cold furnace, I swing around to face my doom. It comes, wearing the faces of a thousand fanged maws, scrap-metal blades and crude guns. I spare a glance at the still-bleeding, ragged stump of my left arm. The entirety of my left side has been maimed, armour split open like a metal husk and the flesh beneath it charred. But both my legs are still strong, and in my right hand, I hold my sword. For ten thousand years, this blade has served me without fail, and it will not fail me today.

The orks eschew their guns; they have settled for shooting long enough. They wish to exalt in bloody, carnal, close-quarters combat, and I am more than happy to oblige. The first ork that meets me is neatly sidestepped and hewn in half; the next is split clean down the middle, a look of almost childish disappointment on its porcine face before it dies. Orks do not fall to minor wounds – every strike must be fatal, if I am to hold my own for any significant amount of time. Fortunately, it so happens that I am more than practiced in the vein of single-stroke kills, and now put every ounce of skill I have to the test. It is not as if I have a choice; even there, at the narrow mouth of the tunnel, they engage me three or four at a time. They are fast, and viciously strong. Unfortunately for them, I am faster and stronger still, and I will not tire for a long, long time.

As a neophyte Space Marine, one of the first things I learned was that to be fully effective in combat, every part of one's body must be a potential weapon. Though my body is no longer complete, this principle has not escaped me; I prove its worth as I use my shoulder to bash an ork to the ground, fracture another's skull with a headbutt, and decapitate a third while crushing the first under my boot. It scrabbles at the floor, vainly trying to rise, and I end its pathetic writhing before another second passes. A Nob rushes me, pushing through the Boyz before it and wielding a Big Choppa above its head with two hands. As that huge blade comes down, I ghost out of the way, drive my sword through its head, and whirl around, spattering the Boyz behind it with the larger ork's brain matter. A bestial roar tears forth from between my fanged rows of teeth, and the alien resolve that drives the Waaagh falters – but only for a moment. Then they are upon me once more, and I am battling furiously to hold my ground, to hold the line. I search for fortitude, in the war litanies of old, and one in particular springs to memory: the Litany of Brotherhood, a proclamation of allegiance, loyalty and might. I am no great performer, but the battle song that rips forth from my throat does not need to be tuneful. It needs only to embolden me, and to be the last sound these wretched orks ever hear.

 _My brother, come join me; through battle we grow stronger._

 _Our foes all shall falter, sacrificed on this altar._

 _Ten thousand years of waiting, over; now we claim what is rightful to us._

 _Come, my brother; with your courage we shall conquer._

 _In your sword I put my trust that you will honour._

 _I will hold the higher ground, should you concede it,_

 _And my body be your shield if you should need it._

Innumerable hours of training fuse seamlessly with instinct, and instead of merely fighting the orks, I begin slaughtering them. I, a veteran of twelve Black Crusades, will not be bested by vermin such as these. This I vow as my blade ploughs tirelessly onward, cleaving through my foes even as I am forced to give ground. The mob presses forth, hungry to sink their blades into me, eager to be the one to land that critical blow. Their lack of higher purpose disgusts me, and I redouble my efforts. One step follows another, and inch by inch I regain the ground that was lost.

The floor grows slick with the enemy's remains. Bodies begin to pile, and slowly, impossibly, I advance into the hallway. There is no end to them, but neither is there an end to my fury; an unstoppable force pitted against an innumerable foe. Ever do their ranks replenish, and yet, in the eyes of those closest to me, I see the beginnings of fear: not of the prospect of locking blades with me, but at the dawning idea that I might slice them to pieces before they could even get as far as that.

I cannot push too far forward, for if I do, they will skirt around me and plunge into the tunnel at my back – not to mention, they will surround me if that becomes the case – so I advance no further. It seems there is no need, in any case; the orks appear to be pulling back ever so slightly. I butcher a few more before confirming that this is truly happening. For a moment, the notion that I, alone and one-armed, have repelled the Waaagh, flickers through my head, but only for a moment. I dismiss it at once; though I have slain so many of them that their blood is lapping at my boots in dissonantly gentle waves, orks do not back down, no matter the challenge. I scan their alien faces for a reason, and find my answer when an enormous greenskin with a crudely decorated banner rising from its back and chunks of heavy armour all over its body smashes through the far wall and stands glaring at me. I meet its gaze with disdain and defiance, and it begins stomping forwards, outright crushing the Boyz and Nobz that are too slow to move out of its way. It stands before me, nearly twice my height. Its back banner scrapes the garrison ceiling, causing splinters to drift down onto its head. It doesn't flinch; neither do I. At last, the beast speaks.

"You'z been krumpin' my Boyz real good, Space Marine. Wot do you fink you'z tryin' ta pull, stoppin' da Waaagh all by yerself? Not proppa, dat. Not proppa at all."

"Save your talk of propriety for one who cares, ork," I growl. "Now, are you going to keep running that ugly mouth, or are we going to fight?"

To my surprise, the monster laughs, thumping its massive power klaw against the garrison floor and causing the entire building to tremble. I keep my balance, but only just. "I like you, Space Marine! You're a roight Orky one, gettin' roight down ta bizness." I have no more words to express my revulsion, so I stab out one of its eyes instead. The warboss roars in pain and anger, and the klaw comes towards me, a mass of sharp, twisted metal that will certainly strike me dead if it connects. I don't give it the chance; I dart forwards through the ork's legs, sliding on my knees and leaving a nasty gash on the creature's thigh. Its twin-linked Big Shoota fires a full-auto burst – thankfully, at the far wall – as it flails around in semi-blindness. I take advantage of the situation and dart forwards to slash at the tendons of its arm, between two thick slabs of armour. I succeed, and the arm holding the shoota sags. The klaw comes around again; this time, I jump over it, my blade slicing through the beast's iron jaw mid-leap. My boots slide on the bloody floor as I land, and I nearly slip before hitting the wall. My recovery is quick enough that I'm able to react before the warboss can attack again, and I charge straight for it, aiming to end this. I almost reach him when a sudden burst of gunfire tears through my unguarded left side; through the shock and agony, I see the warboss's Shoota arm, which should have been hanging uselessly, still active, and steel cables set under its opened flesh to reinforce its muscles.

 _Just like my own_ , I think, in the half-second before that klaw lashes out in one final strike. This time, there is nowhere for me to go; a brutal _crack_ splits the air, and as the massed orks cheer their leader's victory, the last of the Luna Wolves feels one final breath escape his shattered body.

 _Ah… a throne of gold. Can you see me now, you old bastard? Can you see me… father?_


	14. The Emperor's Currency

**A/N: Oof... no reviews for three chapters. I really do hope people are still reading this, especially as the narrative starts to pick up steam. Once again, thanks to all who read and review, and I hope you enjoy.**

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It had been three days since Thurion's funeral.

A sorry affair it was. We hadn't even the proper materials to build him a real grave marker, so we simply stood in a silent circle, heads bowed, while Damantin spoke the proper rites. It didn't come as a shock to me that he knew them; the Thousand Son seemed to know a bit about everything. He dispensed the litanies and sacraments without hesitation, and his quietly commanding voice did not waver once. It was unsettling to see Marrlë's face, normally so jovial, twisted in rage and anguish as Damantin swore that his death would not be in vain.

"As our Brother gave his life for us, we are bound by duty to live on in his name, and we shall aspire to live with as much fervour and valour as did he."

Those were but a few of his words. I remember that particular sentence so clearly, out of all the many rites, and I'm not sure why. All I know is that I carried those words with me from then on, and they would both inspire me and fill me with doubt, for as I would soon learn, they were at once unified in their purpose and self-contradicting. At that moment, though, all I could think of as I stood with my head bowed was the smile on Thurion's face as we left him to die. I knew I would see that smile in many nightmares to come, and often I would try and discern what exactly he meant by it.

Once the funeral was concluded, we had shouldered what supplies we carried from the base and set off towards the nearest landmark, a set of four mountains which thrusted almost violently up from the surrounding plains. It was an obvious destination, and we were fairly certain the orks would find it as well sooner or later, but it was all we had at the moment.

The journey there swallowed us whole for a while. The sky's shifting red and orange hues had lost what little luster they had for me. It was refreshing, in a way, to be back on the road, but the atmosphere was entirely different now. Damantin recalled no stories of his legion, and Marrlë's iron teeth were hidden behind a scowl. Thurion's death was hanging over us like a storm cloud, grim and cold.

Rosie was as somber as the rest of us, but she seemed full of energy regardless, often walking ahead of the others and waiting for us to catch up. Her claws gleamed sharper than ever, and the spines along the back of her arms had lengthened. The beginnings of new protrusions were sprouting along her calves, and her talons had lengthened. During one of our rests, I discreetly asked her what was happening.

"Mostly it is grief," she said, turning sideways and motioning for me to do the same. "You are all in mourning, and it is feeding me. The growths, though, come from somewhere else." At my look of incomprehension, she rolled her eyes in disbelief. "Don't tell me you cannot see it. Are you really so blind?"

"You already know the answer to that," I replied, which had the intended effect of making her smile.

"Indeed. I forgot just how oblivious you can be." Before I could protest, she motioned with her head, prompting me to look over to the others. Damantin was whispering unintelligibly to himself, staff resting across his lap, while Marrlë was cleaning his axe's teeth, face set in a grimace. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I turned back to her with a blank look on my face. She sighed and whispered, "It's Marrlë. He's been exuding so much rage and aggression since we left the base that it's not only helping to keep me here, but strengthening me." I looked back at the red-haired youth, trying to see that immeasurable fury she had described, and once again came up empty.

"Are you sure?" I asked, and immediately realized it was a silly question. Of course she could tell. Before she could give me an answer, I held up a hand. "Never mind, I'll take your word for it."

"Wise of you." Rosie flashed me her sharp teeth. I shivered, and her eyes lit up in delight. "You know, if this persists, I might not need your help anymore," she mused. My heart sank, but I tried not to show it. Though I knew she was only playing with me, I still didn't want to be discarded, for lack of a better word.

"That would be good," I muttered, unhappy with the off note in my own voice. "For you, I mean. To have a reliable source of… ah." Without any warning, her smile had disappeared, and now her black eyes were fixed on mine, staring through them into my soul. I felt them digging through my consciousness, those chitinous claws of hers sorting indelicately through my mind. A wave of raw sensation crashed against my consciousness, blurring my vision and sending my other senses into a painful overdrive. Reacting instinctively, I recoiled, jerking backwards suddenly and dimly feeling my body go through the motions of muscle memory. Damantin looked over in alarm, and I realized I had stood up and wrapped my fingers around the handle of my plasma pistol. Rosie's gaze hadn't faltered – in fact, the rest of her face had followed suit. A mouth full of fangs, features twisted into a cruel snarl, and eyes shining with malice, promising agonies and horrors beyond imagining. Clenching my teeth, I was on the verge of drawing my pistol when that daemonic visage vanished, replaced by the beautiful, perfect countenance I had grown so familiar with. Her eyes were wide with alarm, and so were mine.

"Fenwick, I-"

"No, it's alright," I lied, waving off whatever she was about to say and sitting down heavily, sweat pouring down the back of my neck. I heard voices around me, Damantin speaking to Rosie, and while their exchange escalated in volume, I could make out none of it. I clutched my head between my hands, screwing my eyes shut as the gravity of all I had done washed over me. How could I have been so foolish? I had fallen prey to a daemon, exactly as I swore I wouldn't. She had lured me in, just as Damantin had warned me she would, telling me she needed my help, and I had so naively complied, as if we were living in some fanciful reality where daemons' feelings and intentions extended beyond spreading Chaos and malice. Beguiled or not, there was no doubt in my mind that my soul was already damned to Slaanesh; it didn't take a god-given mark to figure that out. That lapse had been enough to make me see the truth: the Rosie I knew, that had been built up in my mind, was a façade set up by a Warp entity to make me feel more at ease with… with…

Familiar hands touched my shoulders, and I flinched away from them, jerking to my feet and opening my eyes. There was Rosie, looking shocked and hurt, reaching after me, but I knew better than to give credence to that facsimile of feeling. My expression hardened as I looked back at her, silently reminding myself of who I was, of what she was. I would not be deceived again. "Calm down, Fenwick," came Damantin's voice from somewhere behind me. I didn't turn to look at him; now it was my turn to stare Rosie down, until finally she dropped her gaze.

"I am calm," I said, hating the obvious dishonesty in my voice, and turned away. "We've rested enough, I think. Let's go. Marrlë?" The Khornate was studying his axe with an inhuman intensity, his single crimson eye fixed on the viciously sharp teeth. It almost seemed like the teeth themselves were slowly moving, though his hand was nowhere near the throttle – as if it was communicating with him in some way.

"Marrlë."

This time, he looked up, shaking free of the trancelike state that had overtaken him. "Mm? Yeah, I'm coming." He stood, rolling his shoulders and hefting Gorelady across them. His eye roved across my features, and for a moment it narrowed in confusion, as if he didn't recognize me. Then he winked, and recognition filled that eye once more. He strode over to me, rapped me on the shoulder and nodded before moved past me. As we set off, I noticed that Rosie was walking behind us now, her eyes downcast. Pushing down the inevitable guilt I felt boiling up in my chest, I steeled myself and matched Marrlë's stride. It wouldn't do to slow the others down; I had already done more than enough of that before we captured the base, which was now over a month ago.

When we arrived at the foot of the slopes, we found a rocky pass that seemed to wind through the mountains. Since the alternative would be to actually climb the rather steep outer slopes, we decided there was nothing for it and started into the pass. As we went, the shadows lengthened and the dust in the air cleared, while the wind acquired a slight chill. Among the crags and cliffs on either side of us, dark things with many eyes and limbs scuttled and hissed. We might have met some of the more unpleasant ones, but Damantin uttered an incantation and told us we wouldn't be bothered. Though I didn't know exactly what he had done, I trusted the sorcerer completely, and that trust turned out to be well-placed.

Our journey through the pass took a day and a half; between the deepening red sky and the shadows cast by the chasm walls around us, it was as dark as I'd ever seen it on this planet. Damantin made us a fire that night, and the things living on the rock faces came down to investigate, creeping around the fire for a while before vanishing back into the unseen burrows and caves whence they had come. I no longer slept soundly, and it wasn't because of the rough ground. My certainties were gone, and now, two months after meeting them, I had more doubts than ever about my comrades. Though my trust in Rosie had been shaken to its core, I guessed she was telling the truth about Marrlë's hidden rage. It was perceptible in the way he walked, the scowl he wore, an underlying note in his speech. Not to mention the way he had looked at me, as if I was a total stranger. It was unsettling, and worry gnawed at me while I tried to sleep. Beyond that, I could feel Rosie's eyes on my back, and though I tried my best to ignore it, the feeling persisted.

What little sleep I did get was laden with nightmares, filled with blazing guns, the screams of the dying and the Luna Wolf's smile, all amplifying my fears and doubts twofold. I awoke before the sky was orange again, covered in sweat, and quietly cursed Armatura and everything that name connoted. I slept no more afterwards, and too soon had Damantin and Marrlë risen and prepared to venture onwards. Cursing some more, I staggered upright, wiping away my sweat with the uniform that now meant so little to me. Marrlë missed it, but Damantin did not. The Thousand Son observed me pointedly as I shouldered my backpack, and I weathered his piercing gaze in grim silence. When I finally caved and looked back at him, he turned away and started walking without a word, and Rosie and Marrlë quickly fell into step behind him. I felt like I was owed some sort of address, but since I couldn't fully explain how, I only sighed and hurried to catch up with them.

The long shadows slowly withdrew as we drew near the end of the pass. Ahead, we could see the inward slopes of the four mountains, curving down into a basin. In that basin was a small lake, its surface made cloudy and opaque by dust. A large, strange shape rested at the lakeside. Though I couldn't quite make out what it was at this distance, I was fairly certain it was metallic in composition. The others, however, could see it just fine. I heard a sharp intake of breath through the grill in Damantin's helm, and the Space Marine picked up the pace, hurrying down towards the water's edge with the rest of us close on his heels. The shape came into focus as we grew nearer, and when I realized just what it was, my heart all but stopped.

"Is that…" I didn't dare say it out loud, but I knew the others were thinking the same thing. The ship lying so unassumingly by the water's edge was a small vessel, not meant for carrying large companies or anything of the sort. It didn't matter, though; after all, there were only four of us. As my mind hurtled further along this unlikely train of thought, Damantin passed a gauntleted hand over the surface of the ship and stared at it for a moment. For a moment, I couldn't quite see what he was staring at so intently. Then it struck me: his hand had made no mark as it passed. The ship was not covered in dust, which meant…

"This ship only landed recently," the sorcerer declared, stepping back to look over its body. "And it appears to be in perfect shape. As far as I can see, it is in ideal condition to fly. Of course, I will have to look inside of it to make sure of that, but…"

With my fist clenching so hard I heard my knuckles crack, I asked the million-Throne question: "It is void-capable?"

"It is an Aquila Lander," said Damantin, sounding as if he could hardly believe his own words. "If it is as I think, and it truly works, it will see us off of this thrice-damned world."

My relief burst forth as a peal of almost maniacal laughter. I could feel my eyes watering at the notion that we would actually be able to escape, to leave this world behind and start anew. Of course, what Thurion had said to me rang true: I couldn't return to the Imperium, not after what I had undergone, but perhaps I could eke out a new life somewhere else – anywhere that wasn't Armatura. These were wild and irrational thoughts racing through my head with about as much organization as a grox stampede, but at that moment I couldn't bring myself to care in the slightest. I was staring salvation in the face, and I had never felt so joyous. I bent over to catch my breath, and then I saw them: several sets of footprints, already being faded by the ever-present dust, leading off on a path that seemed to go up one of the nearby mountains.

I knew then, that this wasn't an abandoned ship; someone had left it here, and if they were still living, were likely planning to return to it before long. The idea that we would be stealing someone's only way off this planet soured my initial merriment considerably, and I moved to stand near Damantin, who, after speaking a Word of Power and standing still in intense concentration for a few moments, had somehow gotten the ship's doors to open. He had one foot already inside the ship, and upon noticing my presence at his side, turned his head to look at me expectantly. Suddenly feeling very uncertain, I told him about the footprints. In the middle of my explanation, he stepped out of the ship and loomed over me, the ornaments on his helmet adding to his already imposing height. I felt the words dying in my throat as I looked up at the implacable glare of his helmet.

"Were you not paying attention, Fenwick?" He demanded. For the first time, I heard something like scorn in his voice, and blinked in surprise at the unexpected note. "This is an _Aquila Lander_. Meaning, it has been used to transport some important figure to Armatura. It probably belongs to an Imperial agent of some kind, perhaps even an Inquisitor." I gulped as he stepped forwards, gesturing vaguely at the prints in the dirt. "Should whoever those footprints belong to be lucky enough to evade the orks and return to their ship safely, and find us waiting for them, you understand what will happen, don't you?" I nodded meekly, but he pressed on anyway. Normally, I would have responded less timidly, but to hear the normally easygoing Thousand Son speak so forcefully was more than a little startling. "Regardless of what we say, they _will_ open fire. Should it come to that, the most favourable outcome ends in their deaths at our hands, with the alternative being that we ourselves are slain. So, Fenwick – would you rather be killed by an Imperial agent, concretely betray your Imperium by killing said agent yourself, or leave them to fend for themselves on an ork-infested world while we escape with our consciences relatively clean?"

I was completely dumbstruck. Watching me fruitlessly searching for some way to respond to that, the sorcerer shook his head and made to enter the ship. "Come. The sooner we are gone the better."

"I'm not going anywhere." At the sudden words, we both turned to see Marrlë, feet planted firmly on the ground, Gorelady held at his side. "I'm staying until the Warboss is dead."

A fell wind swept over the lake as we stood in unbreathing silence, all rendered speechless now. Marrlë's crimson gaze didn't waver for a second, and neither did his scowl. That silence hung heavily in the air, until Damantin's voice crackled through his helmet's grill. "I am not sure I understand," he started hesitantly. "You are-"

"I'm not getting on that ship." Marrlë's voice was like a metal spike being driven into the ground between us. His shock of red hair swayed in the wind, shadowing his eye, which in turn had the effect of intensifying his stare. "Not until the right blood has been spilled."

"Marrlë," I began, but was cut off as Damantin stalked over to him.

"What is the meaning of this?" He demanded, his disbelieving voice ringing both in our ears and our minds. "I did not know your imprudence extended so far as to pointlessly fling yourself to the wolves, when you have the chance to be free and waste your life on battles you stand a chance of actually winning." Marrlë's scowl deepened further; unlike me, he met the Space Marine's stare without an ounce of fright. The tension in the air increased noticeably, and looking over to Rosie, I saw concern in the Daemonette's eyes. Immediately, I crushed the instinct to comfort her – such a gesture would mean nothing to a daemon.

"I can't leave yet, Damantin – not until Thurion's been avenged. The Warboss at the head of this Waaagh is responsible for the death of our friend. He sold his life for us, and it has to be repaid."

"Were you not listening to his funerary rites, fool?" Damantin's voice was deeper and more intimidating than ever. The tension in the air began to crackle – audibly. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, and goosebumps running up my arms. Not wanting this to escalate any further, I hurried to try and get between them as the sorcerer went on. "He gave his life for ours so that we could _live_. We honour his memory by continuing our lives, and you would throw yours away in a vain quest for glory."

"Not glory – vengeance! Vengeance for my friend, who was killed!" Marrlë roared, his grip on Gorelady's haft turning his knuckles white. I had reached them by now. I tried to speak, but Damantin lifted his hand and I found myself unable to move my lips, or do anything other than watch helplessly. I saw Rosie move to try where I had failed, but the Thousand Son clenched his fist, and she staggered back, gasping as an unseen force held her in place. "A life lived while the one responsible for my friend's death still draws breath would be hollow and shameful. You talked about living with fervour and valour? Well, here's our shot! Don't you want revenge?"

"Of course I do!" Damantin hissed back, rattling my mind with the psychic echo of his words. "But to blindly throw yourself back against the green tide would be nothing more than suicide. In doing that, not only would you fail in your mad venture, but you would dishonor the one you seek to avenge!" That was the last straw. I didn't see Marrlë's punch blur through the air, so fast was it thrown. My jaw dropped in astonishment when the unarmed blow actually dented the Space Marine's ceramite helm and drove the eight-foot super warrior to one knee. The shocked silence that followed was broken by the heart-stopping sound of Gorelady's menacing growl.

"Say that again," the Khornate snarled. The axe in his hand trembled with visible bloodlust. The rage that Rosie had spoken of was plain to see, now – all it had needed was the merest reason to show itself. A moment later, the telltale roar of the chainaxe was nearly drowned out by the crackle of psychic energy filling the air as Damantin got to his feet. I set my teeth, fearing for both of their lives, when the sorcerer abruptly turned his back and walked to the ship door.

"I have nothing more to say to you, foolish boy," he muttered, all the anger in his voice gone and replaced by resigned bitterness. "Throw your life away if you desire; it is yours to do with as you please."

 _Life is the Emperor's currency; spend it well._ The old Imperial adage flickered through my mind, startling me with its sudden resurfacing. My eyes rose unbidden to meet the dimly glowing ones of Damantin's helm; they seemed now to give off an unspoken, inexplicable sadness. "And you, Fenwick?" he said, just loud enough for me to hear. "Will you join Marrlë in this hopeless crusade, or will you live?"

The choice was an obvious one, I knew. If I got on that ship, I would, as the sorcerer so bluntly put it, live – and if I stayed with Marrlë, the end result was clear. A miserable, entirely avoidable death on this wasteland of a planet, or the boundless possibilities of the galaxy beyond. My eyes flickered to Rosie, saw the inhumanly beautiful face I had kissed, saw the one who had bound my ribs and saved my life, silently pleading for me to make the right choice. I looked to Damantin, and saw ten thousand years' worth of wisdom and power staring back, the same wordless urging discernible even through that helmet's unreadable scowl. Unable to bear their scrutiny, I finally turned my head to look at the youth beside me, so aflame with righteous anger that he couldn't see the immeasurable value of the opportunity right in front of him. He was making the wrong decision; that was plain to see. But I also knew then that if I left him here to die by himself, his spike-toothed grin would join Thurion's in my nightmares, and whatever life I ended up living would be wracked with eternal regret and guilt. There was no right answer, but rather, the only answer. Feeling something shut off in my mind, I numbly heard myself speak my own death sentence.

"I won't leave him."

Damantin regarded me in silence for a long while – too long. I got the sense that he was judging me, but more than that, he was thinking. Perhaps for a moment he even thought to abandon all reason and join us, but in the end, reason prevailed, as I knew it would. "So be it," he said, his voice carrying a dullness that spoke of finality and acceptance. "Rosie, come." The Daemonette hesitated, her dark eyes fixed on me. She bit her lip and took a step towards me, when the sorcerer's psychic whisper cut through the air, sharper than a mono-edged knife.

 _"_ _Ruzal'kara."_ At the sound of her true name, her body stiffened, and she turned and walked through the door of the little voidship with none of the usual spring in her step. Just before the door closed behind her, she spun around and mouthed something to me. Even from that distance, I could tell what the daemon had meant to convey, and knew those unspoken words would haunt me as long as I lived. The vast implications of the mistake I had just consciously made started to sink in, and my heart sank with them, even as the ship engines roared to life and the vessel began to rise, the wind from its takeoff blowing the helmet off my head. I didn't turn to watch it roll into the lake; I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the ascending voidcraft, dimly aware of the tears streaming down my cheeks as my only chance of salvation, along with two dear friends, soared off into the red sky. Marrlë stood beside me, his face upturned as well; there we stood in terrible, grim silence as the Aquila Lander shrank more and more, until at last it vanished into the dusty sky. Another minute passed before we lowered our eyes, as if finally accepting that the way out was gone for good, and looked at each other.

Seeing sorrow on Marrlë's countenance was just as upsetting as seeing fear had been. A single stream of tears coursed down his face, and I sensed that it was not for his own plight, but for mine. Without warning, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me in a fierce hug, to which I could only respond by returning the gesture. "I'm sorry," he choked, and I clenched my teeth to keep from sobbing openly. "I'm sorry, Fenwick."

At last, he released me and stepped back, dragging an arm across his face to clear away the tears, and let out a ragged breath. His bloodshot eye stared at me, and he voiced what I had been thinking from the moment I made my decision. "We're going to die, you know that?"

"Yeah, I know," I rasped, coughing to clear my throat and only now seeing my flak helmet slowly floating away from the shore of the lake. "But we're going to take that warboss with us, even if we have to get through the whole frakking Waaagh to reach him."

"Damned right." Marrlë clapped me on the shoulder, that raging fire starting to fill his eye once again. He gave me a brave smile, and I found the sight of his iron teeth comfortingly familiar. "Where do we start, though? As much as I hate to admit it, Damantin's right. Throwing ourselves straight at the Waaagh isn't going to do anything other than get us killed on the spot."

"Mm." I acquiesced with a nod, and found my eyes drawn to the footprints. As my gaze followed them up the slope of the nearest mountain, the beginnings of an idea sprouted in my mind. "What do you say we go hunting for the owner of that ship?" He frowned at that, and I could see the gears turning in his head.

"What for? Damantin pointed that out, too; if they find us, either they kill us or we kill them."

"That was then," I said, gaining confidence as the idea expanded. "With a Chaos Space Marine and a Daemonette among us, they'd kill us on sight for sure. But now that it's just you and me-"

"We're just a pair of humans," Marrlë finished, his eye brightening as he caught on. "You're suggesting we join forces with this Imperial agent?"

"If that's at all possible," I conceded. I was under no illusions about the suspicion and inflexibility that characterized most servants of the Imperium, but on the off chance that they'd be open to negotiations, it would be the best shot we had at actually taking out the Warboss. And if they were dead, well, that just meant we'd have a bunch of fresh supplies on our hands. "We should probably go now, before the dust fills in their tracks."

"You're not going to get your helmet?" asked Marrlë, casting a glance at the piece of armour bobbing further away into the lake.

"What for?" I called without looking, already starting to walk. "You don't wear one."

"Yeah, and have you seen my face recently? I'm lucky that mek's wrench didn't knock my head off." I heard a sloshing noise as he entered the water, and soon after felt a thump on my shoulder. I turned to see him holding the piece of armour out to me and wearing a wry expression. Begrudgingly recognizing my folly in leaving it behind, I took the proffered helmet and strapped it to my belt. When his eye remained fixed on me, I gave him a light shove. "I'll put it on if we run into danger, all right? Trust me." Finally satisfied, he smirked and nodded before falling into step with me, each of us walking on one side of the tracks. The slope began to steepen, but our progress wasn't slowed in the least. The fire in Marrlë's single eye was now reflected in my own, and my resolve hardened as we walked. His iron snarl and the chainaxe in his hand gave me courage, and I knew that the path we now trod would test every bit of it. As we crested the mountain and looked out over the barren expanse of Armatura, we both silently swore the same oath, over and over again: we would not die until our mission was complete.

Not until the warboss was dead.


	15. That Radical Dame

**A/N: A million thanks to all who read and review. I'm glad some people are enjoying this, heretical as it is. Thing is, in the actual novels, there are examples, dubious or otherwise, of the Imperium working with pretty much every faction - barring the Tyranids and Chaos. The Tyranids I understand, because they are single-minded in their quest to consume biomass. Chaos, though, is so often portrayed as one-dimensional and has a frustrating tendency to dip into Stupid Evil.**

 **So I thought of** **Marrlë, a Khornate with a code of honour who just wants to have a grand old romp through the 42nd millennium. Then I wrote about him, and had a lot of fun. Once this story is concluded, I might write another story with Marrlë, if people would like that.**

 **Fun fact: _The Death of a Guardsman_ was going to be titled _Marrlë and Me_** **until I changed it at the last minute**.

* * *

"Well, this was unexpected," said Marrlë. Well, he probably said that at some point, because it was really the only thing one could say about our current predicament. Of all the things I had imagined I might get up to in my lifetime, racing a bunch of orks down a mountain on a warbike with a Khornate perched behind the seat firing an autogun with one hand and brandishing a chainaxe with his other while a tank-sized ball that seemed to consist mainly of a gigantic mouth with teeth to match bounded after us was not one of them.

Only a few hours prior to that, we had been hot on the trail left by the crew of the Aquila Lander, setting a brisk pace along the ridge of the mountain. The tracks faded intermittently, concealed by dust or wind, and we had to guess where they'd begin again. Thankfully, thus far we had been lucky, and were still assiduously on the hunt when the dust began to kick up from the mountainside in great clouds, sweeping into our eyes as the wind began to howl. We looked down on the land below, and saw a wave of dust boiling across the plain towards us. "Dust storm," Marrlë said, quite unnecessarily, and I pursed my lips in frustration. If that swept over us, not only would our progress be halted entirely, but the tracks themselves would be irretrievably lost, and we would be left standing like idiots on the ridge. It quickly became clear that Armatura and its dust storm cared nothing for our progress, as the wave of dust crashed into us, along with the fierce wind that bore it, nearly knocking me off my feet. I screwed my eyes shut and clapped a hand over my mouth and nose, while the grit in the wind tore at my flak vest and what little of my skin it could reach. Through the roar in my ears I could faintly hear Marrlë's distinctive gravelly voice calling out for me. I barked something incoherent in response, and though it was somewhat muffled by the hand over my mouth, I suppose it must have reached him, because he called again, with more purpose this time.

"Fenwick! Follow my voice!" I tried to answer him, but dust poured into my lungs and sent me into a coughing fit. Even so, I managed to stay on my feet, and began slogging in the direction I thought his voice was coming from. His calls grew louder, and I knew that I wasn't going the wrong way. When it seemed as if Marrlë's yells were coming from right next to me, I blindly reached out my arm and felt a hand close around my wrist. It sharply yanked me forwards, making me stumble in the direction I was being pulled, and suddenly the dust scoring across my face was gone – or at least, it was no longer striking me. "Open your eyes," Marrlë said, relinquishing his grip on my wrist, and I cautiously did.

We were in a small metal tunnel, angled downwards and leading further down into the mountain. A pile of rubble lay at the opening, and I realized that the mouth of the tunnel had been covered up. When the dust storm kicked up, Marrlë must've stumbled against it and accidentally broken the weak barrier concealing this tunnel from… from who? My mind turned to the underground passage we had used to escape from the base, and wondered if there was a connection there. Evidently, Marrlë was wondering no such thing; he stood leaning against the wall, watching the storm outside rage on. Even from here, I could see the desire for vengeance burning in his eye, and felt a chill run down my spine. It wasn't as if I didn't want to avenge Thurion as well – quite the opposite – but it was different with Marrlë. He spoke little and smiled less, and what few words he did utter rang with barely restrained fury. That single-minded desire was devouring him from the inside, and if it continued to do so, I could only wonder at what would become of his mind. When all that was left was rage, would he recognize me still? The followers of Khorne were not called berzerkers without reason.

Feeling it best to leave him to his own pondering for the moment, I got to my feet, scraped the dust from my flak armour and gingerly headed down the tunnel, intent on seeing what lay beyond. If I found myself enshrouded in total darkness, or perceived some sort of danger, I resolved to retreat, but curiosity was currently overcoming any trepidation I had. My footsteps echoed through the metal passage as I descended deeper into the earth, squinting to make out what lay ahead. The further I continued downwards, the further the tunnel widened, until it was less of a tunnel and more of a hall. I noticed too that the ground had leveled out, and when I looked down, saw strange patterns carven into the metal under my boots. I kept my eyes on these for a moment, so when I looked up, I nearly jumped in fright. Staring back at me, not two metres away was a skull – only, half of it was covered in wires and bionics, and one of its eyes was a glowing red augmetic.

I blinked, and chuckled to myself as I relaxed; the skull was part of a pattern laid into the wall before me. Upon closer inspection, it revealed a great deal more than that: around the skull was a mark not unlike the ridged outside of a gear, and down the middle of the wall ran a thin line, suggesting that this wall was intended to open somehow. Again, I was no expert on the Imperium's more esoteric organizations, but I knew enough to recognize the heraldry of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Several questions boiled into my mind at once, pushing at each other to claim my immediate attention. What were tech-priests doing on Armatura? Had they been the ones to man the military base before us? Were any of them still alive? In the end, the question that won out was: if the wall in front of me was in truth a door, what lay behind it? Against my better judgement, I reached out to touch the bionic skull symbol; just before my fingers made contact with the metal, a harsh bellow echoed down the tunnel, startling me and causing me to stop short.

"Fenwick! Come up, the storm stopped!"

 _So soon?_ I wondered as I turned away from the vaguely unsettling leer of the Mechanicus icon and picked my way back up the tunnel. Armatura's weather wasn't usually so fickle; the dust-choked atmosphere rarely yielded rain, and when dust storms occasionally blew up, they tended to last for hours. Thinking of the storms brought back memories of indoor practical lessons in equipment maintenance from Damantin, inane conversations with Marrlë, and the dizzyingly sweet aroma that Rosie left wherever she passed. A lump welled up in my throat, and I forced myself to push aside those memories and focus on the present. Logic dictated that I should have been happy to part with a Chaos Space Marine and his daemonic minion, but trying to think that way left me feeling hollow and dishonest, so I simply tried to think of them as little as I could. Of course, this was easier said than done, but fortunately there were other matters pressing on my mind at the moment. Such as whether or not my Khornate companion would end up going mad with rage and tearing my spine out, if the orks didn't beat him to it.

I found that companion of mine waiting outside of the tunnel, his crimson hair blowing in the breeze. He was leaning on Gorelady, the weapon's long, cloth-bound haft reaching all the way from his shoulder to the ground, and I once again marveled at the ease with which he carried and wielded the huge weapon. Did that strength come from the Dark God he served, or was it all his own?

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Marrlë had caught me staring at Gorelady, and the corners of his mouth curved upwards in a shadow of a smile, patting the vicious-looking axe's head. Not for the first time, I thought I heard the weapon purr contentedly, but decided not to ask him about it. The further the conversation went from hacking things to pieces, the better. Instead, I nodded in agreement, and then called in an old promise he had made.

"Speaking of beautiful things – you promised you'd tell me about that Interrogator lady if we survived, remember? Well, here we both are."

He actually laughed out loud. "Beautiful, huh? _That Radical Dame_ is a lot of things, but I don't know if beautiful is a word most people would use to describe her. I mean, I've always thought she's a stunner, but if you're the type to swoon at a Daemonette's mug, I doubt you'd think so too." He realized his mistake a moment after he'd said it, and punched me lightly in the shoulder. "Hey, you know I didn't mean it that way."

"Yeah, I know." I sighed, trying to erase the frown that had crept over my features. There was no escaping it now – Rosie's impossibly beautiful face slid into the forefront of my thoughts. Closing my eyes and shaking my head, I motioned impatiently. "Never mind that. Tell me about your girlfriend the Interrogator."

"She's not my – hold on, do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" The only sound I could discern was the wind sweeping up the side of the mountain, but I trusted Marrlë's hearing more than my own. He could see much farther than a normal human, so it stood to reason he had auditory abilities to match. I watched him as he stood stock still, chin lifted as his eye roved back and forth. Eventually, he picked out a location and turned to face the unseen source of the sound.

"From over the ridge. Approaching quickly – machines of some kind, I think." I nodded, quickly readying my forearm-mounted bolt pistol and pulling my combat knife from the sheath on my leg. I could hear it now, too: the faint rumble of machines, engines roaring away, and climbing. Whatever it was was ascending the other side of the mountain at a tremendous pace, and as the noise grew ever closer, I thought it sounded familiar. Marrlë recognized it before I could, and readied Gorelady, a blood-hungry snarl on his face. "Warbikes."

Barely a second after he'd spoken, the first ork warbike sailed into view, flying over the ridge and crashing heavily down between Marrlë and me. Even through the jarring of the impact and the roar of its still-living motor, I couldn't help but notice that its rider was missing from the waist up. A pair of meaty green hands still clung to the handlebars, and stubby legs were still dangling resolutely from either side of the seat, but most of the ork was missing, seemingly torn off by something with very… large… teeth. I blinked, and suddenly they were falling all around us – orks on warbikes, yelling in their crude, throaty language. Somehow, they sounded at once panicked and ecstatic, and as the last warbike roared over the ridge, the reason for that became apparent. The bike seemed to hang there for a moment, before vehicle and rider were snagged out of the air and slammed to the ground by the monstrous creature that had come over the ridge. It was a squig, but bigger than any squig I'd ever seen, standing over three times my height and with teeth longer than my entire arm. It put these teeth to grisly purpose as it tore into the ork pinned below its legs, which seemed too thin and stubby to properly support the mass of flesh and teeth they carried, but when its six eyes fixed on me, I decided I wasn't about to test that theory. If the giant squig had been able to keep pace with these orks on their warbikes, Marrlë and I didn't stand a chance on foot – especially not with my leg, which had yet to completely heal.

So naturally, I did the only thing I could: shoved the remaining half of the ork off the bike and got on in its place. Marrlë, who had been eagerly revving his chainaxe, now looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Once again, I myself wasn't sure of whether I had or not, but now was not the time to concern myself with such trivial things as sanity. I beckoned frantically. "What're you waiting for? Get on!" Electing not to question this course of action by virtue of the enormous predator now bounding towards us, Marrlë leapt onto the back of the bike as I searched for a way to turn the thing on. My eyes widened in horrified despair when I saw that there were no controls. The dashboard was a blank slate of metal.

"What're _you_ waiting for?!" Marrlë shouted as the squig bounded closer.

"Nothing!" I yelled back. In desperation, I pounded my fist into the blank dashboard, and as if by magic, the warbike roared to life, black fumes erupting from its exhaust pipes. I had a moment to be exasperated with the orks' mind-boggling approach to technology before it suddenly ripped forwards, sending the two of us rocketing down the mountainside towards the other orks while the squig's oversized jaws snapped shut on the empty air where our heads had been a half-second ago. With a frustrated squeal, it began leaping after us, and Marrlë thumped me on the shoulder as it approached with speed belying those ridiculous legs that bore it. "Faster, dammit!" I felt my backpack shift around as he pulled out my autogun and, twisting his torso at an awkward angle, tried shooting our spherical pursuer. Between the increasing speed of the warbike and his already-terrible aim, he didn't achieve much.

"I don't know how to make it go faster!" I protested, but my gripes were drowned in the obnoxious roar of the bike's motor. The thing was shuddering so much it felt like we were driving through an earthquake. As we pulled closer to the other warbikes, one of their riders looked back and gaped in confusion as it saw two humans racing down the mountain on an ork bike.

"You'z tryin' ta go fasta den da orks, 'umie git?" it bellowed, audible even over the combined screeching of all the unstable motors. I couldn't shout that loud even if I had wanted to respond to that. Apparently, it didn't need an answer; the ork turned its head and roared to its fellow riders: "Da 'umiez be tryin' ta go fasta den us, ladz! Let's give 'em a good showin'!" The other Driva Boyz hooted in agreement, and as one, _all_ of the bikes began to go faster, gaining speed until the ground was going by so quickly that it just became an indistinct blur of colour. I looked down incredulously at the green fists still stubbornly clenched around the handlebars, which appeared to have enthusiastically tightened their grip. The orks had seemingly forgotten about the hungry beast pursuing them, and were now only concerned with going 'fasta' than us. The self-appointed spokesman now laughed and pointed at my bike. "Ya git! Don't ya know da red wunz _always_ go fasta? You'z good az ded, 'umie!"

"Huh?" The only constant in the blur all around me was the other bikes. I noticed now that the others were, indeed, all painted a blistering red colour. Sparing a tiny moment to look down at my own, I saw that my bike was in fact painted blue. This meant little to me, until I recalled one of Damantin's lessons.

 _Ork technology works because they believe it does._

Oh. By that same insane logic, then, their red bikes would actually go faster than my blue one, because they thought that was how colours worked. "Um, Fenwick?" came Marrlë's yell. When I didn't answer, he went on: "It's catching up."

"What?!" We must've been going at least a hundred miles an hour. I briefly twisted my head to see if what Marrlë said was true, and yelped in alarm and turned my now bone-white face back to the blurring mountainside. Impossible as it seemed, the giant squig's mighty leaps were not only allowing it to keep pace with us, but for it to slowly gain ground. Each push of those inadequate-looking legs took it several dozen feet forwards, its long tongue lolling out of its slavering maw as it anticipated the feast to come. I was about to make my peace with the Emperor when the ground began to level out, and our bike shot forwards in one final burst of speed. Some of the others, unbalanced by their downwards rush, met the even ground at a bad angle and crumpled like cans, or exploded in bursts of flesh and metal. The wind tugged at my face, and dust flew into my eyes; when I screwed them shut and lifted a hand to wipe away the grit, the bike swerved wildly, narrowly avoiding a rather large rock which another bike immediately slammed into. The squig simply leapt over the obstacle and continued bounding after us. Now that it was almost upon us, and with the other bikes being further ahead, I really was about to just let go of the handlebars and make the Aquila sign, but it seemed the universe was not content to let me die just yet.

From out of the dust, the unmistakable howl of bolter fire clashed with the roar of the warbike's motor; the squig hot on our heels suddenly let out a screech of pain and toppled over, its body riddled with deadly bolt rounds. The orks ahead of us, hooting victoriously at having beaten us down the mountain, perished mid-laugh, their heads all exploding at once. Bolter fire continued blazing through the thick dust at us, but we were still carried by the momentum of our descent, and so narrowly outpaced it. Suddenly aware that whoever was firing the bolter was the person we were looking for, I wrenched the warbike into a curve, circling the unseen marksman as they tracked us by the sound of our motor. Gathering air into my lungs, I yelled as loud as I possibly could, and finally overcame the chugging motor: "Wait!"

The bolter ceased firing as my shout reached them. While I wrestled with the bike's temperamental handlebars, trying to guide us safely across the rocky foothills and vainly searching for some kind of braking mechanism, Marrlë peered through the dust, trying to make out exactly who we were dealing with here. When I finally managed to grind the vehicle to a halt, he hopped off the back, remarkably steady on his feet considering the ordeal we had just undergone, and began brazenly moving towards the source of the shooting. I had just gotten off the bike and was struggling to keep my knees from buckling when an authoritative bark rang out through the foothills. "Come forth, in the name of the Emperor!"

For a moment, I thought Marrlë would spit some sort of heretical retort, but instead I saw him stop, and his one good eye widen. Without any further hesitation, he walked into the dust, and I hastily stumbled after him, cursing the weakness in my legs. Four shapes loomed before us, increasing in clarity as we drew closer, until I could make out their features. A white-haired woman with a fleur-de-lys tattooed on her cheek was glaring at my companion with eyes that could pierce the hull of a tank, a bolter cradled in her arms. To her right, a red-robed man covered from head to toe in augmetics spun his power axe and, with a whirr, turned his head to face us. Further back, a thin man was doubled over, panting as crackling psychic energy slowly faded from the air around him. Closest to us was the one who had spoken, dressed in a long black coat: a scar-faced, hawk-nosed, thin-lipped woman on the cusp of her middle years, and whom Marrlë was looking at as if he had come across a ghost. To my confusion, that look was mirrored on her face.

"Marrlë?" she said, her harsh voice thick with disbelief. The Khornate grinned from ear to ear and turned to me.

"That's her, Fen," he whispered, loud enough for everyone present to hear. "She's _That Radical Dame_."


	16. Awaken

**A/N: A Khornate and a (sort of?) traitor Guardsman are chilling with an Inquisitor and her cadre. Prepare for shit to hit the fan. Thanks a million to all who've read and who've reviewed, and without further ado... back to Armatura we go.**

* * *

Kalaina Spiker wasted little time with formalities. While it seemed, miraculously enough, that she didn't want Marrlë dead, her reaction upon seeing him was more of surprise than the merriment he now clearly was exuding, and I began to doubt that her recollections of whatever adventures they'd had together were quite as upbeat as his. Nonetheless, I was relieved; her presence appeared to have diverted his single-minded focus on vengeance, for the time being, anyway. By that same token, she unsettled me a little; my experiences with members of the Inquisition in the past had been less than endearing. It didn't help when she informed Marrlë that she was now a fully-fledged Inquisitor, having been ascended to the position several years ago – nor did the suspicious glances from the Sister of Battle reassure me in the slightest.

"A Logis Key," she said, when Marrlë asked why she had come. That caught me off guard; I had been expecting her to be much less forthcoming about her reasons for being here. "Magos Vingar was granted it by his direct superior on the Lathe Worlds, with instructions to go and retrieve lost information from a forge here on Armatura."

"A strange order, we agreed," said the tech-priest, his vox-transmitted voice thick with beeping and whirring, "but it is not for me to question the Omnissiah's decrees."

"We arrived two days ago, but our search for the forge has yet to yield anything." A note of frustration crept into Spiker's admission. "We were told it would be around these mountains, but there's nothing here besides, well… mountains."

I hesitated, then realized our best chance at forging an alliance with them was to be honest – well, as honest as we could be, without revealing our heresy. If that Sister of Battle was making me nervous, then the psyker was pushing me to the brink of paranoia. All it would take was one mind-scan, and Marrlë and I would be dead meat. Still, I cleared my throat and piped up. "I know where it is."

The Inquisitor's all-too-knowing eyes fixed on me, narrowing as if noticing me for the first time. "Do you, now?"

Swallowing my nervousness, I nodded and pointed back up the slope down which Marrlë and I had driven for our lives. "Up there, a little ways down from the ridge. There was a dust storm, and we stumbled into it by accident."

"We did?" Marrlë frowned, and I nodded emphatically.

"There's a tunnel. I went down it to see what I could find, and there was a door with the Mechanicus symbol on it." I shrugged, trying not to appear intimidated by their combined stares. "I mean, I can't be certain it's what you're looking for, but-"

"But it can't hurt to look," the Inquisitor decided, turning to the tech-priest at her side and asking him a silent question. He caught her eyes, while one of his mechadendrites slithered through the air to peer at me. I stood perfectly still as the little camera at the end of his back-mounted tendril scrutinised me a moment longer, then withdrew as he drew a conclusion.

"There are no records of any other Mechanicus establishments on Armatura; at least, none that survive to this day." Something beneath his red robes clicked and whirred, making my skin crawl. Just how much of him was metal? "It is likely he is telling the truth." As discreetly as possible, I let out a relieved breath and fell in line as Spiker started leading us up the mountain. Though I had met her perhaps twenty minutes ago and could not make a measured judgement of character as of yet, I noted with approval that she really was leading the way, as opposed to ushering us up in front of her; a small detail, perhaps, but a telling one. As we slogged our way back up the mountainside, the Sister of Battle slowed down to walk beside me. "What's your name, Guardsman?"

"Um," I floundered for a moment, finding myself addressing a military superior for the second time in over two months. "Fenwick. Thomas Fenwick, Sister."

"Where's your regiment, Guardsman?" She wasn't going to call me by my name, it seemed. That was fine by me.

"I never belonged to one. I was shipped here with a bunch of conscripts, and when we arrived, we were attacked by orks, who had already overrun the camp. The conscripts I came here with are all dead, I'm afraid."

"I see." The Sister's eyes narrowed. Just how much did she 'see'? "And why are you alive, Guardsman?" By way of answer, I nodded up at Marrlë's back. As if sensing he was being referred to, the red-haired axeman turned his head to flash the Sororita his signature iron grin; to her credit, she barely seemed fazed by it, but I saw the corners of her mouth curl downwards at the sight of those metal spikes. I silently cursed Marrlë's lack of prudence; at this rate, they'd find us out before we got to the damned forge.

Having witnessed the exchange, the Inquisitor called down with another question: "And you, Marrlë? What were you doing here?" Oh, Throne. I almost sent up a silent prayer to the Emperor that my companion would have the sense to be guileful in his answer, and then stopped myself; in this instance, he was not the one to pray to. As I had no other god to address, I simply watched in gut-wrenching silence as the undercover Khornate shrugged.

"What am I ever doing anywhere, Spiker?" he jested, and I relaxed; while that was far from a masterful deflection, he hadn't blurted out the identities of our past company. "You know me. Drifting from world to world, just me and my axe; that's my lot in life." The Sister seemed on the verge of sputtering a protest at this obvious evasion, but the Inquisitor beat her to the punch with a barking laugh.

"True. Aimless as ever, I take it?" He gave a slight nod, and she smirked before turning back around and continuing to climb. The Magos had outstripped us in our ascent, his eagerness to reach the hidden forge made obvious by his haste. In contrast, the psyker was hanging around the back of the group, his eyes half-lidded as if only semiconscious of what was happening around him. He was silent as a stone, but I knew better than to write him off as nonthreatening; while he was no Damantin, anyone capable of exploding three orks' heads at once was not to be trifled with.

The rest of the way up found us faced with several more questions, each of which we dodged with varying degrees of grace. Sometimes, we were forced into inventing flat-out lies, while other times we could answer plainly, as long as if fit with what we had already told them. Most of the time, though, we were required to tweak the truth just enough for it to appear lacking in heresy. By the time we had reached the mouth of the tunnel, I was practically swooning with relief; we had managed to keep our story pretty straightforward, and neither I nor Marrlë had said anything concretely incriminatory. The one uncertainty that was still nagging at me was how we would disassociate ourselves from the theft of their ship. I turned that loose end over in my mind as we headed down into the dark of the tunnel. Eventually, we were greeted with a familiar red glow, and when the tunnel widened out into the hallway it really was, the tech-priest cackled with glee – a sound which reminded me somewhat of a shotgun pump. "Still active, after all these years untended. The machine spirit here is a strong one indeed."

He scurried forward to open the door while the rest of us hung back, not entirely sure if what he was doing was safe or not. Our trepidation soon proved to be unfounded; after producing a small object from his robes and poking around the door with his mechadendrites, a triumphant noise issued from the Magos's vox, and the skull icon split in half, along with the rest of the door. The two sides slid into the walls, grinding on the metal floor as they did, and once they had fully retracted, they fused so seamlessly with the walls around them that I wouldn't have known there was anything there unless it was pointed out to me. I took a moment to marvel at this small detail before Magos Vingar led us inside, and my breath was taken away. The Mechanicus forge was not some hovel tucked away inside the mountain – it _was_ the mountain.

The six of us looked around in awed silence, taking in the vastness and sombre majesty of the dead forge. Though the innumerable machines were immobile and covered in a heavy coating of dust, it didn't detract in the least from the wonder I felt at their complexity, and the sheer size of some of them. It staggered me to think humans had built such things, which in turn led me to wonder just how human the Mechanicus were. Certainly the Magos, with all of his implants and bionics, appeared less human than Marrlë; but then, Marrlë was not your average man either. These musings were completely overshadowed by the metal spectacle surrounding us, but they still swam in the back of my mind, and I knew that I would return to those thoughts later.

It was odd to see a tech-priest, reputed to be inscrutable, taciturn folk, so openly ecstatic, whirring and clicking away as he began leading us through the maze of iron, an indecipherable string of technical information riddled with intermittent slips into binary issuing from him as he pointed to this lever or those servo-arms or that tangle of wires. Dead servo-skulls littered the ground, or at least, we thought they were dead; the Magos picked one up, examining it with his optical mechadendrite before extending a wire from his palm and reaching up into the skull's circuitry. Its extinguished eyes blinked with sudden red light, and Vingar stood connected to it a moment longer before raising his hand and releasing it, as a child might free a balloon to the sky; only, this balloon immediately set about in reviving its fellows which had fallen by the wayside. I watched the industrious little skull float down beside one of the grounded ones, and extend its wires to feed new life into the sleeping machine. Before I could see any more, we were beckoned onwards by the tech-priest, who now claimed to know the way down into the heart of the mountain-forge, where the object of his quest lay.

Taking the vastness of the forge into account, the complexity of the route he led us on was no surprise. Along narrow passageways, squeezing between twisted wires and pipes and climbing down ladders beginning to show hints of rust, we descended into the stomach of the forge, and as we went, I became aware of a dim light shining up from below. I frowned, uncertain of what I was seeing, and the tech-priest ceased chattering once he too perceived it. "That is odd," he clicked, sounding less sure of himself. "I was not aware that there were any spirits awake within this forge. The servo-skull said nothing of this."

"Do you know what it is?" asked Spiker, her booted feet clanging onto a metal grill platform as she stepped off the last ladder. From there, a spacious elevator was the final step on our descent.

"I dare not say," the Magos answered ominously as we walked onto the elevator. The sturdy machine hardly registered our weight; it had been constructed to hold several tech-priests at once, all of whom would weigh several times as much as an average human. Vingar punched a code into the elevator's keyboard, and with a shudder, we were bound for the lowest floor. "If my suspicion is correct, something truly unorthodox is afoot here." His words put us on edge, but nothing could prepare us for the sight that greeted us as we descended towards the very bottom of the manufactorum. The light that shone from the floor was thrown up against a massive metal construct. Though it was vaguely human-shaped, by its sheer size it looked like someone had, with great care and impossible levels of technical and architectural skill, turned a cathedral into a humanoid machine. We were lowered past metal beams and scaffolding, flitting by our vision as our eyes remained fixed on the colossal machine. Guns the size of small buildings jutted from the monstrous contraption's arms, and I imagined that the thing could have destroyed our old base with a single salvo of gunfire. It was bigger than the Gargant we had destroyed by a significant margin, and I wondered how anything so enormous could actually move across the ground without shattering under its own weight.

"Emperor's blood," Spiker whispered. "A Titan."

"A Warlord Battle Titan," the Magos specified, in reverential awe of what he was seeing. "An avatar of the Omnissiah, made to sanctify the earth it walks and rain holy fire upon the foes of mankind." The elevator clanged to a halt, and I only remembered to walk off when the Sister pushed me in the back, perhaps a bit harder than was necessary. Even so, my steps were slow as I gazed up at the Titan in awe, and as such, didn't notice Marrlë sidling up to me until I felt his fist hit my shoulder. Being used to the gesture, I simply looked over at him expectantly, and saw suspicion written on his features. I was instantly on my guard, noting that the others had walked a little way ahead.

"What's the matter?" I asked, keeping my voice low. His eye flickered up to the Inquisitor and her cadre ahead of us, then to the sleeping Titan.

"Something's off," he said, and paused. Before I could ask him to elucidate, he continued. "I'm not sure exactly what it is, but I feel… comfortable. I'm sure it's got something to do with the Titan, but I can't put my finger on it just yet."

"The tech-priest doesn't seem to have noticed anything," I muttered, eyeing the giddy Magos as he rushed over to a mess of cables linking up to a cogitator in the corner. Marrlë scoffed.

"He's drunk on finding a Titan. You'd be, too, if you were a cogboy. I'm telling you something's up, Fenwick."

"Okay, I trust you. Don't worry about me, Marrlë – I'll keep my guard up." He nodded and the two of us strode forwards to catch up to the others, who were watching the Magos from a distance. Unintelligible metallic noises were coming from him as he sorted through the cogitator's databanks, and as we looked on and the minutes ticked by, the initial excitement in the sounds faded, gradually being replaced by what could only be confusion. We ourselves stood in a silence that was rapidly becoming uncomfortable. A chill ran up my spine when I happened to see the psyker's dull eyes slip down to fix upon Marrlë's axe, and he frowned. Just as it looked as if he might comment on something he'd noticed, the tech-priest spoke out in Low Gothic.

"This isn't right," he clicked, slowly backing away from the cogitator, whose screen cast an eerie glow around his robes. "The cogitator is telling me that the Titan isn't sleeping. All the processors are treating it as if it were active and combat-ready, but if there were a princeps, or any Skitarii present, they would have hailed us by now." We spent a moment digesting his words in grim silence before looking up at the Titan in a new light. It now seemed different somehow; I could feel something ebbing at the fringes of my consciousness, a faint pulse behind my eyes that coloured the edges of my vision red.

All at once, three things happened: First, the psyker screamed and doubled over as if punched in the stomach; second, the veins in Marrlë's neck bulged as an inhuman snarl split his features, and I thought I saw blood dripping from his gums; thirdly, a figure shifted in the shadows, and with a whooshing noise followed by a crunch of metal, split the Magos's head in half.

There was no stunned silence; at this point, I knew better than to react in such a way, and had seen enough not to be fazed by surprises like that. The others were all highly experienced as well. Instantly, they sprang into action; Gorelady's distinctive howl split the air, while the Sister darted to the side and levelled her bolter. Spiker's power sword hummed into life, and her previously-free hand was now holding a hand flamer. As for me, I readied my forearm-mounted bolt pistol and drew my knife. In the end, though, it turned out there was no need for that; before we had gotten into position to fire around the Magos to his killer in the shadows, a pair of mechadendrites burst from the back of his robes, coiling around and aiming downwards in front of him. The shadows made it difficult to see what exactly was happening, but I knew that at the end of each of those mechadendrites was a small meltagun. A baleful _whoosh_ , followed by a metallic screech, signalled the demise of his unseen attacker; unfortunately, the Omnissian axe buried in the tech-priest's head had done its job. Vingar fell backwards, tendrils spasming wildly like the death throes of a den's worth of serpents. We leapt out of the way of those lashing mechadendrites, two of which were still spouting uncontrollable streams of super-agitative infrared light.

 _"_ _We weren't expecting you,"_ came a cackling voice, seeming to issue from the entire massive chamber. _"But you will do just as well."_

"Who are you?" shouted Spiker, looking up into the darkness above. She was met with more cackling; clearly, whoever was speaking was feeling very smug about something.

 _"_ _We are of little consequence,"_ replied the voice; when it spoke, it sounded like hundreds of metal legs clicking against the floor. We saw them now – asymmetrical eyes of green and yellow, staring down at us from beneath frayed red hoods. All of them emerging from the shadow of the Titan, standing with gear-bladed axes grasped in their augmetic claws. Marrlë, however, wasn't looking at them; his eye was focused on the crimson trail now snaking across the chamber, channeled by grooves dug in the floor, right to the feet of the Titan. The blood of the slain Magos flowed freely towards the construct's legs, and once it reached them, began to _climb_ , ascending the Titan's form like obscene veins over its metal surface. These impossible trails glowed as they rose higher and higher. We watched in abject horror as at last they reached its 'head', and twin red lights winked into life where eyes might have been. For a single, horrible moment, the head dipped, and those eyes fixed on me. Incredible bloodlust shone there, such as I had only seen once before: the very same as that which burned within the single crimson eye of the youth at my side. That realization chilled my blood and filled me with terror.

 _"_ _Awaken, mighty Adelram, and walk. It is time to bathe the soil in blood, in the name of the Lord of Skulls."_

Then that gaze was gone, writing me off as insignificant, and from the Titan's huge square chest came an unearthly bellow, nearly driving me to my knees. The others reeled along with me, and before we could recover, the ground beneath our feet shook, almost knocking us off our feet.

The Titan had taken a step. And then, another. The priests of the Dark Mechanicus had vanished, no doubt having climbed into the Titan, directing it in its dark purpose. We worms, squirming futilely in the shadow of the monster, were apparently beneath its concern. It narrowly missed stepping on the trembling psyker, knocking him over anyway with the impact of its gargantuan foot upon the manufactorum floor. It stood now before the wall, behind which I knew was a mountain's worth of stone and earth, and brought two of carapace-mounted guns to bear. _No way,_ I thought, and was immediately proven wrong. The first of the guns, a melta cannon the size of a large tank, blazed away at the metal walls, disintegrating them with the sheer heat of that blast. The other, which looked like someone had turned ten heavy bolters into a pair of gatling guns, spun into a blur before proceeding to utterly destroy the mountainside.

The dust-dimmed natural light of Armatura streamed into the manufactorum, momentarily blinding us with the sudden shift. Ignoring us altogether now, the Titan began stomping into the plains through the gaping hole in the mountain, each step echoing with grim purpose, and all around us, that electronic cackling slowly died, while at once becoming more and more frenzied even as it decrescendoed. We were left in stunned, breathless silence, watching the walking mass of death depart. Eventually, Spiker's hoarse rasp put an end to the gut-wrenching quiet. "We," she started, and forced herself to continue. "We should go back to the ship."

"No." My blood froze at the sudden word. All heads turned to Marrlë, his crimson eye blazing as he looked after the receding Titan. There it was again: vengeance incarnate, with only a single cure.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" The Inquisitor was too surprised to be angry; at this point, the only thing in her voice was disbelief.

"You can't return to your ship." My heart leapt into my mouth. Surely he wasn't going to tell them.

"Why not?" The Sister demanded, her grip on the bolter tightening.

"Because our former companions stole it." I wanted to scream, and nearly did when I felt the Sister's gun pressed up against the side of my head. In similar fashion, Spiker's plasma pistol was now pointing into Marrlë's face, which displayed a dissonant self-assuredness.

"Give us one reason – a _single_ reason – not to kill you immediately," the Sororita hissed. Marrlë's eye fell on her, and perhaps my sight deceived me, but I thought I saw her shiver. I couldn't blame her if she did, of course; looking into that eye was to see sheer rage and murderous force of will. It was a small comfort to know that that killing intent was being reserved for another. The Khornate chuckled, low and more than a little menacing.

"Well, we're still here, aren't we? It wasn't _us_ who stole your ship; our former companions did, and we were powerless to stop them." Obviously unimpressed with his smug iron grin, Spiker's grimace grew more pronounced.

"'Powerless' isn't a word I'd ever use to describe you, Marrlë. Just who were these companions of yours, really?"

Marrlë opened his mouth before his eye roved across my face, registering the panic and fear written in bold print all over my features. And then, with such impudence as I had never seen before in my life, used that eye to wink at the Inquisitor. "I'll tell you that story if we survive," he said, echoing what he had once told me concerning the very woman holding a gun to his head. I simply could not believe it, and for a second I thought she would just shoot the idiot and order the same fate to be administered to me immediately thereafter. I don't think I've ever been more surprised and relieved than when I saw her lower that pistol and motion for the Sister to do the same.

"You've obviously got some scheme up your sleeve, bastard," she hissed. The ice in that rasp would've shaken me, I knew; my companion, on the other hand, seemed accustomed to it, and it occurred to me that this might not have been the first time they had been in such a predicament together. "So let's hear it. What incredible genius is behind that smirk?"

Marrlë smirked more. "We're going to follow that Titan."

"Explain yourself."

"Tell me, Spiker – how much do you know about the ork presence on Armatura?"

"I don't- oh, Emperor's guts. You're going to tell me there's an entire Waaagh out there, aren't you?"

His lack of an answer only confirmed that. Cracks were showing on Spiker's harsh façade; her disheartenment was visibly growing. Mine was not, but only because it had already hit rock bottom a while ago. And all the while, Marrlë's horrible, knowing grin gleamed on in the dim light. I found myself wanting to punch him in the face; no one should look so smug in the situation we were in. Simultaneously, intense jealousy of his self-assurance boiled in the pit of my stomach. How I wished I could be that composed.

"Now, from the things those hereteks said, we know that they're devoted to Khorne, the Dark God of… senseless carnage. If a bunch of Khornate tech-priests were commanding a Titan, what do you think they'd do with it?"

"How do you know about Khorne?" the Sister demanded, but was cut off by Spiker raising a hand sharply.

"Get to the point, Marrlë."

"They're heading to wherever they can engage in senseless carnage, of course. And where better to find it than in the middle of an ork army? They're practically made for each other."

A hint of understanding dawned on her face. "They're going to destroy one another."

"Yes, they are." Marrlë's eye gleamed unsettlingly. "And when an ork warboss is killed-"

"The Waaagh falls apart, and the orks will lose what little organization they have. They might even start fighting each other." She was picking up steam, quickly grasping Marrlë's plan. It was simple and unrefined – just like he was. "So you intend to use the chaos as the orks and the Titan clash to pick off the Warboss?"

I really, really wished she hadn't put it that way. Marrlë's grin widened, seeming like it might actually rip the corners of his mouth. "Exactly," he hissed. "That Chaos will be the key to our salvation."

Spiker dwelt upon his words, while the Sister and I looked from her to Marrlë and back again, both of us unable to believe what was happening. At last, she made her verdict. "It's incredibly reckless, and furthermore, it's proof that you are quite insane – as if we needed any. Not to mention our odds of finding the Warboss in that turmoil are miniscule – let alone killing it in the mix. But it is all we have, I suppose."

"Finding it will be the easy part," Marrlë declared, stepping over and giving the psyker a solid punch in the shoulder. The telepath, still shaking from being overwhelmed by the Titan's bloodlust, jumped at the touch, eyes wide, and barely relaxed when he saw who had hit him. "We'll let this quivering peon do that for us. Just look for the biggest, baddest ork in the mix – shouldn't be too hard, eh?"

He said nothing. I felt a bit sorry for him; he looked like he had just looked into hell, and perhaps he had. With an apologetic glance at the beleaguered psyker, Kalaina Spiker grimly pursed her lips and turned to the Titan, now mostly hidden by the dust. Her next words were for all of us. "Our mission has changed," she said, and her voice was like iron striking stone. "We're going to kill the ork warboss." With the resigned sigh of a dead woman, the Sororita scowled and nodded. As they turned away, Marrlë, that glorious bastard, smiled at me, as if he expected me to congratulate him on convincing them to follow his ridiculous plan. For the life of me, I could not bring myself to return that smile, and so only gave him a slight nod as I turned my head to stare into the dust. What was the Thousand Sons' battle cry again?

 _All is Dust._

Those three words echoed, wraithlike, in my mind now, as we walked off towards our inevitable demise. I could only chuckle hollowly at how apropos they seemed.


	17. Into the Fray

**A/N: Nothing needs to be said, besides the usual thanks to readers and reviewers. Let's Jam!**

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Tailing the Titan was easy. Between the massive footprints it left behind, the distant thunder of its guns whenever it crossed paths with unfortunate ork outriders, and the sight of its metal frame looming out of the dust, it would have been very difficult to lose. Of course, we were confiding in that it knew where it was going, since we hadn't a clue, but as we progressed, we could only conclude that it was sure of its direction. The sound of its guns grew more and more frequent as run-ins with orks did, which signalled to us that we were drawing near the main mass of the Waaagh. The prospect of coming face-to-face with the horde once more made me nervous, but that was better than the alternative, which was to be as sanguine as Marrlë. If his optimism had been normal, I might have stayed jealous of him, but it quickly became apparent that it was something else. He always walked ahead of the others, tireless and unnervingly quiet. I walked close behind, feeling it was my duty to stand by him. Whenever I caught a glimpse of his face, it was always the same: twisted into a feral snarl, preternatural fury blazing from that single eye. I could see it now – the will of the Blood God, driving him on, doggedly seeking revenge. I wondered if it was even the memory of Thurion spurring him forwards anymore, or if it was simply such concentrated fury that any remaining doubts and worries had been erased. Either way, I was now fearing for his sanity as much as my own. The others certainly thought him insane, and while they had plenty of reason to, some part of me, in the face of all probability, was hoping I'd once again see the bright-eyed youth who had declared me his friend. Once this was all over, perhaps.

 _Nothing ever goes right in this wastebin of a galaxy._

Thurion's cynical words haunted me, weighing down my steps, and I fought a desperate battle within myself to quell my doubts, to believe that he was wrong. Of course, this flew in the face of all evidence – the person who had spoken that line was dead, our other two companions had absconded with our sole route of escape, and Marrlë was teetering on the edge of homicidal insanity. With a grimace, I pushed the gravity of these truths to the back of my mind, and forced myself to see the bright side of things: at least we weren't dead. Yet.

Here was none of the camaraderie that there had been when the traitor marines and Rosie had been our companions. We had been bound by fellowship, whereas this group walked together because of grim necessity. Whether it was Marrlë and I's presence that caused this atmosphere or if they were normally so aloof, I could not discern, but I found it darkly ironic that I had felt more at home among heretics and traitors than in the company of the Imperium's servants.

Eventually, Spiker called us to stop. Marrlë shifted impatiently, looking back at her. "What?" he growled, and her eyes narrowed, but she let it slide.

"Hear that? The sounds of orks and guns haven't died after a few seconds." Now that I was listening for it, so it hadn't. If anything, it was growing louder by the second, and as the implications of this sank in, I didn't have to see through the dust to know what was happening. At last, the Titan had encountered the main body of the Waaagh, and would now be unleashing all its ballistic fury upon them.

"I noticed," Marrlë hissed, the clawed fingers on his hand twitching. To keep them calm, he scraped them over the head of his axe, which rumbled hungrily. "Why'd you stop us?"

"To put your plan into action, genius," Spiker snapped, motioning to the psyker. "The field is yours. Can you find the warboss?"

"Not from here," he murmured, and I blinked upon hearing him speak for the first time. His voice was rich and mellow, and dishearteningly resigned. I wanted to cheer the poor bastard up, if only because his resignation was palpably spreading among us. Spiker frowned.

"Stop that and focus," she ordered, and with an apologetic nod, the psyker complied. The unnatural feeling of defeat that had started to gather inside me vanished, only to be replaced with an all-too-natural one.

"We'll have to get closer," he informed us. Of all of us, Marrlë was the only one who was at ease with this, but we had no choice. Even this Titan, unbelievably powerful and deadly as it was, couldn't stand forever against everything the orks could throw at it. Sooner or later, it would fall, and we would be next on the chopping block – that is, unless we managed to kill the Warboss before then. If that happened, the Waaagh would lose its cohesion, and while we still probably wouldn't escape with our lives, the ork threat on Armatura would be reduced significantly.

Like ghosts, we crept through the dust, trying to get the psyker within maximum range of the warboss. He remained intensely concentrated as we did, gauging how far he could extend his mind. There was the ever-present danger of simply being overwhelmed by the massed power of the Waaagh, but to the telepath's credit he did not succumb to it, or compromise our stealthy advance. The dust clouds obscuring our vision grew ever more infuriating, as the sound of the fighting raged on before us, but all we could see was the Titan's upper half, and the stormboys sailing towards it in suicidal attempts to dig their choppas into its impregnable metal body. Any closer, though, and we would have become visible to the orks through the dust. Fortunately, though, that was all our psyker needed. His eyes suddenly glowed with power, and we all shifted away from him a little, before he told us what was happening.

"I've found the warboss," he announced through gritted teeth.

"Excellent. Kill him, now," the Inquisitor commanded.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"He's surrounded himself with ork psykers. There's at least four of them, and if I engage one, the others will overwhelm me. There's something else, too – some incredible power, disrupting my concentration. Above us."

"Above?" As one, we raised our eyes, and saw the impossible. There, from the red heavens, were plummeting dozens of blue-painted pods. They hurtled earthwards as if cast from the limits of Armatura's orbit, and no more than a few seconds later, crashed into the earth with a noise that echoed even over the clamoring of the horde. The thundering of ork feet shifting to deal with this new threat filled the air, and while I didn't know what had occurred, the looks on the faces of Spiker and the Battle Sister told me they did. A moment later, I was enlightened.

"The Adeptus Astartes are here," the Sister breathed, and a slow smile spread over her face – the only one I had ever seen from her. "Of course – Armatura is part of the Realm of Ultramar. No doubt we're late to the conflict." The treacherous seed of hope blossomed in my chest, and with a smile just like hers, I sought to catch Marrlë's eye – only to find him with his back turned to us. His head was tilted back, as he perceived something from on high – something different from what we had seen. At the same time, the psyker spoke again.

"It's not the Ultramarines," he said, clutching at his skull and clenching his teeth. "They're not the ones exuding that… that power. I've never felt anything… anything like it!" I needed to hear no more, for I now saw what Marrlë was seeing: A distant object racing across the crimson sky with the speed only a ship could muster. For a moment, I thought it was a Valkyrie – or perhaps another Thunderhawk, seeing as the Astartes were here, but as it came closer and its distinctive shape became discernible, my eyes widened in shock, and my breath caught in my throat. With two impossibly fortuitous revelations having been discovered within seconds of each other, it seemed that perhaps, just this once, things might actually be working out for the best in this wastebin of a galaxy.

Beside me, Kalaina Spiker was staring with equal surprise. "That looks like my ship," she'd said suspiciously, watching it streak down towards the battlefield. When she realized the truth, her face lit up with complete disbelief. "That _is_ my ship!" she shouted indignantly, jabbing a finger at the descending space shuttle.

"So it is," I said, feeling a shit-eating grin spring to my lips. Spiker turned to glare at me, a murderous look on her face.

"Just who is on that ship, Fenwick, and what are they doing to my psyker!?"

Suddenly trapped by the question – the answer to which would doubtless be emerging soon from the vessel – I was saved, if you could call it that, by Marrlë's sudden and seemingly random decision to charge forwards, directly into what we could only assume to be the massed centre of the ork horde. I took the opportunity to ignore the Inquisitor's inquisition and, pistols at the ready, darted after him, deciding that a near-certain death at the hands of the orks would be better than having her blow my head off with a plasma blast once I informed her that our companions had in fact been a Chaos sorcerer and a daemon. Perhaps they followed me at once, or maybe they waited, but for now, it was the two of us, Marrlë and me, leaping into the fray. If the orks had been aiming for us specifically, we would've been killed rather quickly, but they had bigger fish to focus on – namely, the Titan and the Space Marines laying into them from either side. We carved a tightly focused path towards some unseen location, and while all I could do was watch his back as he sheared all in his way to bloody ribbons and thus, could not see his face, I heard him laughing, laughing senselessly. Gorelady laughed too, in that soul-chilling way that only she could, and amidst that insanity of gore, bullets and fury, I heard a third laugh coming from my own lungs. I could not understand it, and in the heat of the moment there was no time for analysis, so I let it gust forth, even as I fired this way and that, uncaring that I would run out of ammunition soon, that we would be overwhelmed. To this day, I still don't know why I laughed, but I get the strange feeling that if I hadn't, I would now be dead.


	18. Angel of Death

**A/N: Okay, so this is probably going to be the most controversial chapter yet (and with all the heresy that's happened up to this point, that's saying a lot, I know). I beg forgiveness from both the Emperor and the Chaos Gods for what is to come.**

 **Right, apology and warning are out of the way. Thanks to all who've read and reviewed, and, as the orks would say, 'Ere We Go!**

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My hands work across the controls of the Aquila Lander, bidding the vehicle to take us higher. With my fingers armoured as they are, it is difficult to do anything requiring much dexterity, and this ship was not built to be manned by Astartes. Still, I refuse to let such a paltry inconvenience deter me, and we rise, Ruzal'kara and I, rise into the hellish red sky and leave our companions on the ground to die in futility.

I am Sutekh Damantin, an exalted sorcerer of the Thousand Sons. Through the Great Crusade and the Long War, I have prided myself in my belief that all I have done was right and just. Of course, it is the duty of a Space Marine to perform the duties that mortal soldiers will balk at, to fight the battles that would crumble the resolve of those deemed lesser than ourselves, and to live with the consequences of visiting untold brutalities upon those we are bidden to attack. This is what the phrase "And We Shall Know No Fear" truly means. Yes, it entails that we shall not flee before our foes, but beyond that, it means to stand fast in the face of moral dilemmas, and to maintain a will of iron when debatably innocent blood taints our hands and faces. No fear, no remorse, no uncertainty: that is what it means to be a Space Marine, and in all the years I have fought both within the Imperium and without, I have ensured that I can uphold the integrity of this phrase by never giving myself reason to doubt. I feel no shame; no guilt lurks in this sorcerer's heart. Yet when I think of their tear-stained faces gazing up at me, as I pilot their salvation away into the sky, leaving them to die in the grim dust, I feel cold dread creeping through me. It is plain to see that they have made a mistake, but counter to all logic I am stricken with the thought that I have done the same.

I try and shake off these thoughts. They chose death, and I have chosen life. Simple conclusions, one obviously correct, and the other… not so.

We rise above the clouds. Dust surrounds us, clogging the ship's cockpit window and making it difficult to see beyond the glass. It is like a storm of dark, swirling ominously around the ship as we close with the edge of Armatura's atmosphere, as if warning us of the way ahead. I care not – there is nothing here that can impede our progress. Nothing besides my own hands, which hover over the controls as if frozen. Indeed, it chills me to think that I would pause for such a reason as doubting if I have done the right thing.

I haven't betrayed anyone, I think, even as the frost in my blood calls me a liar. The Imperium turned its back on me, not the other way around. I am the one who has been betrayed; this remorse is not mine to feel. The tremor in the voice of Thomas Fenwick, as he decided to perish valiantly alongside his friend rather than save himself, tells me otherwise. He, an Imperial Guardsman, looked at me like a hero, and I have left him to die. My hands clench into fists as, for the first time in ten thousand years, indecision coils through me like the golden ouroboros on my shoulder.

The ship can handle itself for a while. I set it on autopilot, turning away from the miasmic churning outside the cockpit and fixing my gaze upon Ruzal'kara. She leans sullenly against the ship's door, as if daring me to open it and allow her to plummet. Such a fall would not kill her, of course, but the look on her face affirms that the challenge is there, and I will not let it go unanswered. I step forwards and loom over her, something that Space Marines are very good at doing. She is tall by human standards, but I have over two feet on her counting the ornamentation atop my helm. I say nothing; she knows I expect an answer, and her refusal to meet my gaze irks me. It irks me because I know why she is so grim, and the idea that a daemon should be occupying the moral high ground relative to me brings my doubt to another level altogether.

"You would have had us stay with them." It is not a question; it hisses from my helmet's grill, slightly harsher than I intend it to. She does not dignify that with a response, staring rebelliously at the floor between my feet. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"You do know. You cannot lie to me, Ruzal'kara."

"Rosie."

"What was that?"

She finally looks up at me, her lightless black eyes filled with anger. "My name is Rosie." This is a bold untruth. That moniker is a mockery of human names, but she really seems to believe it. Refusing to allow her to maneuver me away from the topic at hand, I deliver my question again.

"Why did you want to stay with them?" I ask more insistently this time. The maelstrom of dust is beginning to clear as we prepare to leave the planet's orbit, and thus the silence I am met with is total. "I can and will wrest the answer from your mind if you force me to. Would you have me visit that indignity upon you, instead of speaking plainly? Be grateful that I am giving you a choice in the matter."

Her face contorts in a snarl, displaying her fangs and letting the daemonic countenance that she hides so well slide into view. "Harsh words, hmm? Don't think I don't know why you're talking that way. You feel the same. You don't think we should have-" My irritation becomes anger, and I allow her to speak no further, instead reaching into her consciousness and probing through her thoughts. I find the usual there: lust, hatred, sadism, rage and spite. The first is a hallmark of Slaaneshi daemons; the others are common to all malevolent Warp entities. Yet it is not there that I find my answer, and I am forced to dig deeper. Her fangs grind together as she feels me prying for the words that she will not say, yet she cannot lash out against me. She is my minion, and can do me no harm as long as she is in my service. I am forced to pick through darker things, things she keeps restrained. That which she would rather not have others see, telepathically or otherwise. I find things there that shake me, things that I was not expecting and that seem horribly out of place. At first it is little things that strike me: pride, caution, tact, wit. But as I delve ever further, I grow more unsettled as other concepts emerge. Sadness is there, and I sense that I am now on the path to what I seek.

The discovery of empathy halts my progress altogether for a moment. My will falters, and hers pushes back, indignant and desperate, but I am quick to regain control and shove past it. Next, I encounter sensitivities, and I take a moment to understand what it is I am seeing. Once I ensure that it is what I think it is, it lends the lithe form standing defiantly in front of me an air of vulnerability I have never perceived before, but now find odd to not have done so. Something is terribly amiss. Then-

I lean back, utterly baffled by what I have found. She doesn't look angry anymore, just uncomfortable, as if I have discovered an embarrassing secret. Considering what I have found, it likely is. "What is that?" I hiss, unable to believe my mind. There is hurt in Ruzal'kara's eyes now, and once again, she does not answer. This only serves to further cement the veracity of this finding. I cannot dwell on it, now, though; I can sense how close I am to her reasoning. With some effort, I put aside the fact that I have just found altruism lurking in a daemon's consciousness, and surge inwards to grasp at that which I seek, hidden like a pearl in the depths of her mind. Around this pearl is clamped all that is left of her will, straining to keep me out – silently asking me to relent, to leave this knowledge unknown, to let her keep this single secret. I cannot allow this, and I will not be denied.

I tear open the shell she has cast around her secret, and my perception of reality – of what is, and what can be – is broken. I almost physically stagger back, even as my psychic projection staggers out of her thoughts. This cannot be. It is impossible, unthinkable, but what I have found in Ruzal'kara's mind can only be the truth. Why else would she guard it so fiercely? I stand motionless, stunned by this revelation, even as the daemon I tore it from sinks into a passenger seat, her face awash with mortification. Knowing what I know now, I am granted the horrifying realization that I have given myself not one, but two reasons to be ashamed. In that very moment, as I recollect myself, I make a silent oath that there will not be a third.

"I am sorry," I say, to which she spits at my feet, hissing in that way that only a daemon can.

"Don't pretend to care for me!" She screams, losing her already thinning veneer of humanity in the process. An impossibly wide, stretched mouth and deep lines mar her face, while her hair-tendrils writhe furiously, like a nest of serpents. "You know what a daemon is, Damantin. You know that none of this can be real. You know me for a monster, capable only of manipulation and cruelty." Her hideous face twisted in anguish. "But you're hardly better. Cowering behind that stupid helmet, making everyone wonder if there's a person under there at all. At least I'm a monster with a face."

I let her words hang in the air, their weight growing with each passing second. I watch her rage simmer into resentment and discomfort. I see her shrink in that chair, quailing slightly under the soulless stare of my helmet. I allow this, allow her to bear my quiet judgement a moment longer. And then, I dispel it all. My thick ceramite fingers reach up, undoing the gorget locks that hold my helm in place. Her eyes grow round, and her mouth forms a silent 'o' as I remove the headpiece and kneel. We are at eye level now, for the first time. I am placing myself on even ground with her, to let her know that I truly want to hear what she has to say.

"Do you truly feel that way, Rosie?" I ask, my voice even softer than usual without the coarsening effect of the helmet's vocalizer. "What I saw – do you truly feel that way about him?" She bites her lip, sharp teeth breaking the skin and causing a drop of blood to roll down her chin. Looking into the lights that dance in the hollows where my eyes should be, she gives me a single nod. I reach out to wipe the blood from her lip before rising to my feet, contemptuously casting my helmet aside. Too long have I hidden from those I called my friends; if I am to see them again, it will not be from behind the stifling veil of my helmet, but with these sparks through which I truly perceive the world. My eyes, windows to the soul in a very literal sense, blaze brightly as I am filled with new purpose. Two quick strides take me to the ship's controls, and soon we are swerving around, facing Armatura once more. Rosie stands and is at my side in an instant.

"What are you doing?" she demands, her voice thick with confusion and the merest hint of hope. My skull-like face, set in a permanent grin, stares straight ahead, unflinching and sure of its purpose. I know what I intend to do, and I will know no fear in doing it.

"I had forgotten," I say. "I had forgotten, as so many do – to be an Angel of Death, it is not enough to simply be a killer; one must be an angel first. It is time to for me to be an angel, Rosie." I do not need to look at her to see her smile.

Hours later, the Aquila Lander's engines shove into overdrive as I point the vessel towards the planet's surface and send it rocketing downwards into the dust. During our descent, I cast my mind forth once more, seeking those signatures so familiar to me, so distinct that it would be impossible to miss. It is no difficult task – I find them in the thick of an enormous mass of orks, along with some unexpected factors. "Ultramarines," I rattle, spark-eyes burning with hatred. Of course – it only makes sense that the sons of Guilliman would have arrived to deal with the xenos threat on a planet within their sub-sector, though why it has taken them so long is something I do not care to discover at the moment. A cursory divination tells me that Marrlë and Fenwick will both be slain within minutes if someone does not come to their aid. Along this same train of foresight, I play out several different iterations of the battle in my head, and I find one chain of events that seems particularly favourable. Granted more time, I could scrutinize it further, and perhaps discern a more prudent course of action. Time, however, is not on our side, and so we descend into the stratosphere, streaking earthwards in a race to provide our friends with succour.

We can now see the battle below, thousands of orks clashing with an entire company of Space Marines. Among them, I spy flashes of lightning arcing out, and feel psychic pressure radiating from below. If the skull I call a head could smirk, I would; that Ultramarine librarian's biomancy is nothing compared to the power I wield, and soon, I will demonstrate just how disparate our strength is. But my wrath is not for them; no, I reserve it for a far mightier foe.

At the edge of the battlefield stands a mighty Warlord Battle Titan, a hundred feet tall and equipped with the most fearsome weapons of the Dark Mechanicus. Even from here, I can feel the god-machine's torment, and my soul seethes with rage at the indignity it is being subjected to. For such a great spirit to be turned into a maddened, senseless tool is unbecoming and unacceptable – not to mention, if the Titan remains standing, I have predicted that Marrlë and Fenwick will be killed in approximately one minute. The connection between these two circumstances is subtle, but not so subtle that it is uncertain. It must be dealt with at once. I issue a wordless command to Rosie, and she wastes no time; I smash a button to open the Aquila Lander's door, from which she leaps with unnatural grace and poise, falling in a perfectly measured series of flips towards a tell-tale red shock of hair among the massed orks. With a satisfied nod, I follow suit, but unlike her I do not allow myself to fall; my disc blisters into existence beneath my feet, catching me and bearing me aloft. I am closing rapidly with the Titan, and whatever corrupted Princeps lies atrophied in its head must recognize me as the most immediate danger to it, for the Warlord's massive guns begin rising to attempt to cut me out of the air. A single blast from any of those will signal my end, but my divination saves me; I know where each of them will fire, and under my promethean command we slip by each deadly shot. Now I am close enough, I decide, and before any more shots can strike me, I reach out with the most potent assault I can muster.

One by one, the hereteks crewing the Titan are destroyed, their bodies bursting like mere sacks of meat and blood. From there, I sever wires, overload power systems, and crush the Princeps's mind beneath a telepathic boot. Now at last, I am faced with the Titan itself, its machine spirit broken long ago after being unhallowed by the ministrations of the Khornate hereteks. Nothing remains now but a maddened, bloodthirsty death machine; a rabid beast, which must be put down. Perhaps by destroying it, I can provide it with some final dignity – out of respect for the god-machine, I will not hold back.

The Titan's building-sized guns creak and clank as my force of will keeps them leveled at the ground, preventing them from rising to fire upon me. The machine spirit screams in frustration, which would be enough to kill a lesser psyker all on its own. I deflect that scream; I have, believe it or not, heard worse than the rage-filled cry of a god-machine. Now, I attack in earnest, Warpfire roaring forth from my fingertips and bathing the Titan in unholy flame. The fire becomes lightning as I charge it full of such unholy power that even that mighty frame, which has unfalteringly turned aside chainblades, explosive rounds and missiles, cannot resist. I crack the Titan open, tearing a hole in the center of its bulk and viciously pulling its body apart. It is strong, so very strong, but I am beyond physical strength. Nothing material can stand against the power of my mind.

The Titan howls in agony as, one by one, its systems fail, and its adamantium body is torn apart. I gradually wrench its guns from its body, flinging them onto the orks and crushing them in their hundreds. They are still many; no matter. I will deal with them when I am done here, and I do not intend to keep them waiting long. With one final, terrible shriek – the inimitable sound of destroyed metal and the death-scream of a god – the Titan is ripped into a ragged, gutted tower of metal, which I waste no time in hurling at my enemies. The orks stand no chance of avoiding it, though, for Fenwick's sake, I avoid targeting the Ultramarines. If I am to clash with them, I will do so later. Now, I will cut the problem at its very root. It takes only a moment to find the warboss, surrounded by weirdboyz – ork psykers. Does it think they will save it? Protect it from _me_? My eagerness to show it just how big of a mistake it has made is matched only by my desire to avenge the companion that fell at its hands. The rage I feel only adds to my sorcerous power, and in a flash I am among them, the brightness of my armour denying the dust as I stave in the first weirdboy's head before it can react. The remaining three turn towards me at once, raising their crude, gnarled staves to attempt to counterattack. I reward their efforts by boiling the blood of the one closest to me, and transforming the guts of the third into gigantic maggots that devour it from the inside out, pouring out of its stomach and face before dying themselves. The fourth manages to send a crackle of lightning my way, which I dismiss with a wave of my hand, and then answer my assailant with a bolt of my own, only ten times as powerful.

A shadow falls across me, prompting me to turn away from the last weirdboy's charred carcass and round on this new enemy. I stare into the grinning face of the ork warboss, who is nearly double my height and whose left hand is an oversized power klaw. In its right is clutched…

My eye-sparks blaze in pure hatred. I knew the warboss would be here, of course; my divination would not miss something so crucial. I knew it would appear behind me after I took apart the Titan and slaughtered its weirdboyz. I also knew that from this range, a single Doombolt will take its idiotic, grinning head off, and most of its foul body with it. It is close, but not so close that it will not have to charge in order to reach me. With a bellow, several tons of greenskin, crude metal armour and weapons barrels towards me. Responding only with a contemptuous laugh, I raise my hand, gather up every last ounce of Warp energy I can muster, and prepare to unleash it right into that hideous, piggish face. I feel the power surge through me, coiling through my muscles, arcing through my veins, crackling over my skin in flares of red and black, and-

Nothing.

I barely have enough time to register surprise before the charging warboss collides with me like a speeding tank, crumpling my ceramite warplate like paper and causing my body within to buckle as it is twisted unnaturally by the impact and the breaking of the armour. Its power klaw clenches around me, digging into my flesh, slicing through muscle and bone, before flinging me aside with incredible force. I bounce over a growing pile of bodies before crashing into something solid: one of the Titan's guns, which I myself tore off and cast down upon the battlefield. My consciousness is fading quickly, the stench of war growing hazy along with the rest of this blighted world, and I realize that I am about to die. Both my hearts and two of my three lungs have been punctured, leaving me with very little to go on – too little. I only have to wonder a moment as to why my psychic abilities failed me in that crucial moment before the answer comes to me, in the form of an all-too familiar laughter in the back of my head.

 _Well-played, Tzeentch. Well-played._


	19. Human Enough

**A/N: The original description for this story stated that "things don't immediately go horribly". As some of you may have realized, the key word there was 'immediately'. And now, at last, everything finally comes crashing down around Fenwick. Thanks to all who read and review, and I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

There, at the center of the maelstrom of clashing armies, it seemed like my vision had improved to the point where everyone around me appeared to be moving in slow motion, while the sounds and the background had simply faded into an indistinct blur. Every time my guns barked and a Boy fell, a sheet of red flashed behind my eyes, and my own breathing had grown deeper. I could feel a string of spit hanging from between my teeth, and I didn't bother to wipe it away – the thick of combat was not the place to be worrying about such things. The only constant in this rush of flesh, blood and explosions was Marrlë's red mop of hair, forging ever onwards as he cut down anything unlucky enough to find itself in his path. It was my guiding light through the dust, spurring me on with the knowledge that if I was left behind, I'd be swallowed whole by the battle. Fiercely as we fought, though, we could not dent the green tide as they raced past us to engage with the Ultramarines. Even in this mad rush, I sensed that Marrlë knew where he was going. He charged and struck with visible purpose, but as we pushed ever deeper into the fray, it didn't look like we would be getting out again. I only had a bit of ammunition left, and if it came down to my lasgun and knife, I wouldn't last a minute. Strangely enough, the thought of making peace with my Emperor was far from my mind; my only concern was where I would point my guns next, which ork would meet its end at my hands. When to duck, when to shoot. And with every kill, that red flash behind the eyes.

It was frightening… and exhilarating.

Suddenly, after the last bolt flew from my forearm-mounted pistol, I saw him – Damantin, soaring over the battlefield on his disc. I shouted and waved, but he could not hear me, and did not change his trajectory. His armoured form blazing with Warp energy, he closed on the Titan, and before my disbelieving eyes, began to rend the gargantuan god-machine to pieces. This was a Damantin I had never seen, displaying power that no person should be capable of wielding. The Thousand Son tore its guns from its carapace, wrenched its arm-cannons from their sockets, crumpled its metal shell like a beetle's exoskeleton and cast it all down in pieces upon the army of orks, crushing them in their hundreds. A piece fell within a dozen metres of us, blasting us with earth, dust and shrapnel. That was my single luckiest moment on Armatura – an ork that had been about to brain me was instead shredded by flying chunks of metal. In retrospect, I wonder if Damantin had meant it to.

Another ork charged me, brandishing a spiked mace, and this one was intercepted by a flash of purple-white. The Boy was disembowelled in a brutal flurry of blows, and it took me a moment to register what I was seeing. Rosie stood before me, grinning over her shoulder at me, claws dripping with blood. Then, her physical form faded; she flickered through the air in a haze of purple as she danced between reality and the Warp, appearing to strike down the orks around us. Marrlë roared an unintelligible greeting, and then we three advanced. An inhuman, blood-hungry grin split my face; if we were indeed to die on this barren, wasted land, we would die together.

Under Marrlë's guidance, we rounded the side of one of the Titan's cast-off guns. Ahead of us rose a mound of bodies, accumulated throughout the battle. There were Astartes there, but only a scant few compared to the dozens upon dozens of orks. They all lay dead together, and as I looked upon them, the curious thought struck me that not all are equal in death. The orks died to sate their lust for combat, while the Space Marines died to free Armatura of their taint. My hand tensed around the grip of my autopistol. Would I die well, when my time came?

Atop the mound, I saw him; Damantin appearing in a flash of sorcerous light, and with a whirl of his staff, taking a weirdboy's head off. Three more falling to his unstoppable power, until a towering shape, over twice his size, stomped into view from the other side of the mound. Damantin swivelled, his body alight with psychic energy, but when he extended his hand, there was no flash, no explosion, no sound - only the bellow of the warboss as it ploughed into him, crushing his armour in its massive claw, and casting him earthwards with vicious force. The Chaos sorcerer's broken body bounced once before crashing into the gun we just came around. He lay at our feet, unmoving. Unbreathing.

I saw his face, saw the unnatural light of life that had preserved him these past ten thousand years dim and sputter, and finally wink out forever.

I saw Rosie as the horrific implications of this dawned on her: I was the knot that bound her to the Materium, but Damantin was the rope. I saw her reaching out for me, calling my name, asking me to save her. I could not – she knew I could not, but still she pleaded. I was no sorcerer, just a man. I saw her fade from reality, screaming those same haunting final words that she mouthed when she left me the first time.

I saw Marrlë, saw him looking down at Damantin's shattered corpse. I saw him look up to fix the warboss with his glare. They were not human eyes, if ever they had been, but pools of liquid fire, ablaze with rage. I saw the warboss roar jovially, and heard it bellow down to us. "You was friends with them Space Marines, 'umie gitz? Dey was 'ard, ded 'ard, but not as 'ard as Boss Skullrippa!" I saw it laugh, beating its barrel chest with its power klaw of a left hand. In its right hand was-

I froze at the realization: in its right hand was Thurion's power sword.

Marrlë let out a scream of insensate rage, and Gorelady howled right along with him, sparks running along her head as she spun with vengeful hunger. The Khornate and his axe wanted, needed to kill, and the warboss was the only one whose death could slake their thirst. Everything else was erased, and I was swept up in their bloodlust, racing towards the mound of bodies, seconds behind Marrlë. I could not feel myself breathe, could not hear the thundering battle around me, could not taste the dirt and sweat pouring down my face. All that was left was the sight of that laughing ork, and the desire to see it dead.

The two of us reached the edge of the mound and began to climb. I was rapidly outstripped by Marrlë, who was practically leaping up the pile, the less-than-stable ground not seeming to slow him in the least. Despite the murderous rage reddening my vision, I was still only human, and quickly fell behind. It was just as well; somewhere in that fury, the thought occurred to me that if I came within reach of the warboss's sword and claw, I would be quickly disposed of. Of course, I still had every intention of blowing the bastard's head off – it only meant I would have to be careful not to draw too much attention to myself… while also hammering the ork with all the ammo I had left.

Fortunately, this seemingly impossible task was made considerably easier by Marrlë surging up the rest of the mound and hurling himself at the warboss with the ferocity of a man possessed – certainly no mortal man could be strong or fierce enough to drive such a monstrous hulk as Warboss Skullrippa back a step, seemingly taken by surprise as Marrlë showered him with bone-shattering blows from his chainaxe. But one did not become the unifying leader of ork warbands by succumbing to initial onslaughts, even ones as ferocious as that, and before I had gained a foothold and trained my guns on what little unarmoured flesh the ork did have, Marrlë had been forced onto the back foot, leaping and strafing frantically to avoid the swinging Legion power sword and the enormous power klaw. Even the Khornate's monstrous strength would be sorely tested if he attempted to turn either of those aside.

For a moment I grasped the sheer hopelessness of our predicament. We were facing a creature that had butchered two Space Marines, one of whom had been a master swordsman, the other having been a powerful sorcerer. The autopistol in my hand seemed tiny and ineffectual. How were mere bullets supposed to pierce the warboss's thick armour? Even the powerful bolt pistol fixed to my arm might not be enough… and I had a single bolt magazine left. Beyond that, I had my plasma pistol, which would be my best bet at punching through that armour. And my puny combat knife, which I wasn't even considering at the moment. All of that, I grasped for a single moment.

Then the madness of battle took me once again, and I slammed a new magazine into my autopistol before opening fire.

It would have been a swift death for me if Marrlë hadn't been so unrelenting in his attacks. Even while forced on his guard, he still threw everything he had at the hulking brute, axe blurring through the air, seeming to be already swinging in from another direction before a blow had landed. What allowed us to last as long as we did was Skullrippa's relative unfamiliarity with Thurion's sword; it was more of a trophy than a practical weapon, its grip undersized for the ork's massive hand. Marrle must have noticed this, because he redoubled his assault on the warboss's right side. This would have been an infeasible tactic were it not for me forcing the ork to ward off my shots with its klaw. Still, even as Marrlë attacked, carving a bloody gash into the warboss's arm with every other slash of his axe, it still wasn't enough. We needed a good, clean strike to our enemy's head, but as tall as he was, there was simply no way for us to do so – without me getting in range of its klaw, that was.

I knew then that to have a chance of defeating this monster I would have to die. The truth ran through my veins like a river of ice, turning my arms to lead and my stomach to boiling oil. Now, after all I had lived through, was the moment where I would be called on to do my duty as a Guardsman and give my life to take down the enemy. My feet felt like they were encased in stone as I looked up at the bristling mountain of armour that was fighting Marrlë. Could I? Could I give my life, in the Emperor's name, to vanquish the foes of mankind? Most Guardsmen had to choose between their enemy's guns or their own commissar's, whereas I only had the former to worry about. I could scramble back down the pile, leaving my companion at the warboss's mercy, and probably catch a stray bullet, or I could run up to the warboss, shoot it in the face, and be inevitably pounded into a bloody paste.

I holstered my autopistol and shoved every bolt I had into my arm-mounted gun. I would need both hands free. Then, taking a deep breath and allowing the mad courage of battle to bear me forwards, I, Thomas Fenwick, charged the fifteen-foot tall ork warboss.

 _My brother, come join me; through battle, we grow stronger._

The ork roared and brought its klaw hammering down, several hundred pounds of scrap metal and matter-disrupting spikes crashing towards me. Fortunately, it was more concerned with fending off Marrlë's desperate onslaught, and so I was able to scrape by, dodging the slamming klaw and leaping to dig my fingers into the warboss's armour.

 _Our foes all shall falter, sacrificed on this altar._

Unable to reach me from that close without dropping his sword, Skullrippa roared and twisted madly, which resulted in Marrlë's axe biting into its ribs, shearing on through the armour and forcing it to retaliate with equal ferocity. Even so, I was hanging on for dear life, bloodying my nails on the craggy edges of the armour, my face smashing against the unyielding metal. Gritting my teeth and ignoring the blood pouring down my chin from several more broken teeth, I forced myself to pull myself higher, swinging an arm upwards and closing the three fingers of my right hand around the next outcropping on the armour.

 _Ten thousand years of waiting, over; now we claim what is rightful to us._

I heard shouting voices approaching, along with the familiar sound of plasma blasts. Turning my head to look, I thought I saw Spiker racing towards the bottom of the corpse mound atop which we were fighting, power sword blazing. That sight inspired little relief in me; we'd likely be dead before she could even reach us. A particularly forceful heave of the warboss's shoulders nearly threw me free, and holding on cost me another fingernail. My body slammed against the ork's armoured back once more, and his power klaw grazed my leg, carving a bloody slice along my calf. Tears and sweat mingled with the dirt on my face and ran down into my eyes, nearly blinding me altogether. Just one more push, and I would reach the warboss's head.

 _Come, my brother; with your courage we shall conquer._

With my face now pressed against the ork's broad, armoured back, the only indication that Marrlë was still alive was the continuous roar of Gorelady as she and her wielder pitted their warrior hearts against their opponent's brutal weaponry. As I swung my hand upwards, I heard the only thing that could've made me despair even more. "BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" came the Khornate's distinctive war cry, and I smiled bloodily, humorlessly. If the warboss somehow didn't manage to kill us, the Inquisitor certainly would, after hearing that.

 _In your sword I put my trust that you will honour._

I took that final step, swinging my right arm up towards the last handgrip with all my might. My hand slammed down on the warboss's large pauldron, which, I remembered far too late, was covered in spikes. I screamed aloud as I felt my three-fingered hand be impaled by one of those cruel spines. Even through that pain, I knew that if I didn't haul myself up, all three of us would die. Blows to the limbs and torso, even if they pierced the beast's armour, would not fell or even slow it. Just one last push, and I could strike at its head…

 _I will hold the higher ground, should you concede it…_

Pain coursed through every inch of my body as I pulled myself upwards, unholstering my plasma pistol and preparing to fire. At that moment of imbalance, the warboss heaved in the most inopportune way possible: forward, flipping me straight over its shoulders. My hand tore free of the shoulder-spike, sending a fresh jolt of agony through me even before I hit the mound of bodies. A dead ork's tusk jabbed into the small of my back, eliciting a hoarse gasp from me. Spiker had nearly reached us now, was only a few feet away from me when the warboss leaned down and reached for me with its klaw.

It was a critical mistake: by leaning forwards, it had given Marrlë a clear shot to its head. Of course, since orks took a few moments to realize they were dead, the power klaw would obliterate the upper half of my body anyway. Time seemed to freeze as I watched, hopelessness enveloping me, that klaw came closer and closer. My eyes then flickered to Marrlë, silently bidding him to strike the killing blow. I had served my duty as a Guardsman; my death would be the gateway to the enemy's defeat. I would, indeed, die well.

Helpless to do anything else, I looked on as Marrlë leapt, axe held high… and sank Gorelady into the warboss's klaw arm. A bestial howl ripped forth from the weapon, her wielder and the beast they carved into. Blood fountained forth as the arm was cleaved off, the heavy power klaw falling to the bodies with a sickening squelch, less than a metre from my head. With a roar of rage, Warboss Skullrippa turned and cut Marrlë in half.

 _And my body be your shield if you should need it._

It sounded to me as if Thurion's power sword screamed in protest as it chopped through the youth's torso. Marrlë's upper half tumbled past me, down the pile of bodies and out of sight, while his legs stood almost defiantly by themselves, before slowly falling over backwards. I had seen a lot of horrible things on Armatura, but that was by far the worst. For now. Almost at the same time, Spiker swept forwards, her long coat flying behind her, and rammed her power sword through the warboss's chest… even as cold fury swept through my body. The righteous hatred that I had felt during the first battle against the Waaagh surged through me again, turning my heart to ice and my blood to fire. This… _thing_ had taken everything from me. My future with the guard, when its Boyz had slaughtered the conscripts I had deployed with. My friends – Thurion, Damantin, and now Marrlë, all senselessly butchered. And Rosie, however misguided my feelings towards her might have been… the beast had taken her from me as well. It was more than a desire for vengeance, now: I _owed_ the warboss death. To kill it was my right.

I picked myself up, ignoring the blood trickling from my ruined hand, my cracked teeth and broken nose, and clenched the plasma pistol tightly. Inquisitor Spiker, ripping out her sword, spun and slashed Skullrippa's tendons, her sword cleaving through the armour behind its leg. The ork stumbled forwards with a groan. Perhaps it was finally feeling pain, after having its arm chopped off and being run through. Good.

I stepped forwards, and as I did, I heard a voice, echoed by Gorelady's revving, calling out to me, demanding my attention, digging into my thoughts. It did not divert me from my path, instead spurring me on, fanning the flames of my hatred. _He is gone,_ said the voice. A woman's, and one I did not know, but I felt I should recognize. _He is gone, taken from me. This base, loathsome creature has taken Marrlë, my Marrlë. Make it pay. Take everything from it, as it has taken from you, from me._

"You're…" I let the thought trail off, for I was now staring the warboss in the face. It met my eyes, and there I saw fear. Rightly so, because at that moment, it was looking into the eyes of death. My left hand shot out, digging into the ork's non-augmetic eye and forcing its head to stay up with strength I did not know I had – and, in retrospect, should not have had. I cannot say if I was fully human in that moment, but I did not care. My right hand, bloodied and damaged, held the plasma pistol. Not hesitating a moment longer, I raised it to Skullrippa's face and fired once.

The ork's face burst as the blast of energy smote it dead on. My face tightened in an expression approaching grim satisfaction before I fired again. And again, and again. The gore of the ork's skull and brains were spattering my face, and my vision was clouded by a thick red mist, but I didn't care. I just kept shooting, over and over. It was dead after the first three blasts; six shots later, I was feeling no more satisfied. It didn't just need to die, it needed to be destroyed, annihilated, wiped out of existence like the stain it was. A scream left my mouth – not a battle cry, but a cry of anger, of frustration, of misery and emptiness; the cry of a man who has nothing at all left to lose.

I knew my pistol was on the verge of overheating, and I still emptied the entire canister of plasma into that bastard's face. When the gun exploded in my hand, I felt nothing, even as I tumbled down the bodies to land on my back, looking up at the dust-choked sky. I laughed – or rather, my lungs contracted and I coughed up some blood and dirt, but close enough. It seemed so similar to how I started on Armatura, staring up at the red sky and knowing I was going to die. Except this time, there really was no way out, and I really was going to die, gazing hollowly up at the sky.

I looked sideways, and was met with the sight of Marrlë's iron grin. He was staring sightlessly at me in an everlasting wink, his crimson eye glazed over and his fist still clenched tightly around Gorelady's haft. I ignored the awful mess at the bottom of his torso, blocked it out, and fixed on that spiked grin. Even in death, Marrlë's smile was the best damn thing on this hateful planet. Remembering all those times I had questioned how human my friend had been, I could have cried, thinking on how foolish and pointless those speculations had been. It didn't matter to what exact degree Marrlë was a human, or a mutant, or a daemon, or anything in between. The only thing that mattered was that he was bloody well human enough.

A shadow fell across me. With the last of my strength, I turned my head to look up into the grim face of Inquisitor Kalaina Spiker – the face of a woman inexorably bound by duty. After Marrlë's little 'confession'… well, I knew what was coming. I had consorted with heretics, and was going to die here anyway whether the Inquisitor killed me or not. I could only hope that she made it quick. I averted my eyes, instead electing to gaze back up at the red sky, and waited. I was not to be kept waiting for long.

"Thomas Fenwick, in the name of His Holy Majesty the God-Emperor of Man, I judge thee excommunicate traitoris by associations. Your sentence is death."

That sounded about right. It was sort of relieving to hear, after all this time spent in doubt. At least now I could be sure I was a traitor, instead of fruitlessly tripping over all these little nuances in my thoughts, hoping there could be some loophole, some way to prove I had not betrayed the Imperium. Perhaps I had forgotten how little the Imperium cared for nuances, unless they were incriminating – theirs was a black and white perspective, and it was quite clear into which camp I fell.

There was an oddly warm humming noise as Spiker brought her sword down. Then, there was nothing.


	20. Guardsman

I lean back and let the air out of my lungs, smoke curling out of my mouth. Looks like that's all I'm getting out of this lho stick; I flick what remains of it into an ashtray and steeple my fingers. You might judge me for relaxing like this, but believe it or not, I've had a rough couple of days. First, my ship was stolen. Next, I encountered that barrel of trouble who called himself Marrlë, riding in on an ork warbike while being pursued by a giant squig. Then our mission to the forge went horribly wrong and we almost got flattened by a Chaos Titan. Finally, for some reason I caved to that idiot Marrlë's plan and wound up throwing myself into the melee between a company of Space Marines and an ork Waaagh. I'd say I'm entitled to a short break.

It can't last long, though. I hear the door open, sigh and look over. It's a medic, come to give me news on his condition. After all he's been through, I wouldn't be surprised if the kid was comatose. I arch an eyebrow, and the medic clears her throat. "He's awake, Inquisitor."

"Oh?" I hadn't been expecting that. Seems duty calls again sooner than I'd hoped, but oh, well, nothing for it. I could simply put off talking to him – it's well within my authority as an Inquisitor – but I believe these things should be taken care of sooner rather than later. It'll spare me headaches further down the line if nothing else. Pushing myself to my feet, I move towards the door, and the medic moves aside, giving me a respectful nod. Before I leave, I motion towards the small table beside my chair. "There's a glass of vintage amasec with your name on it, if you feel like indulging a little vice." She frowns, opening her mouth to ask me if she heard correctly, and I close the door behind me before she can, smiling to myself. People don't expect much from Inquisitors besides fanaticism and burning of heretics; I enjoy the look on their faces when I offer them something nice instead.

This brings me to the subject at hand. A walk down a long, spacious hallway takes me to the door of the ship's medicae ward. The hallway is empty, and as I open the door and look in, I see that the ward is as well, except for him. He's lying back on his medi-table, eyes open and staring at the ceiling, no doubt enraptured by awful memories. Or maybe it's the fact that those memories aren't so awful that's tormenting him. As my footfalls echo through the ward, he sits up with a grunt, watching me as I approach. I'm not a young woman, not by any measure, but his gaze makes me feel decades older. His face is youthful, but his eyes are not; I can tell they've seen more than most oldsters on their deathbeds have. It's almost enough to send a chill down my spine, until I remind myself that I've looked into eyes far more sinister than his. Comes with my line of work.

He has said nothing yet, and neither have I. I'll break this silence before long if he doesn't, but first, I'll even our ground a little. When I reach his medi-table, I pull up a stool, fan out my coat and sit down. We're not quite at eye level, but close enough. When his hollow stare doesn't waver, I decide to speak first.

"So-"

"Are you going to kill me?" He asks suddenly. I close my mouth and fix him with a look that would be enough to unsettle most nobles; he doesn't even blink. He really is a tough one, this kid.

"No," I assure him. "Although I have plenty of reasons to. Consorting with heretics, acquisition of forbidden knowledge, daemonology, improper and irresponsible use of Imperial technology… the list goes on."

"How do you know about all that?" he asks, and to my relief, his expression finally shifts away from emptiness. Granted, it has become one of confusion, but at least it's something I can work with. I reach into one of my coat pockets and produce a leather-bound book, still covered in dust. His eyes widen in recognition, and he falls back on the medi-table with a defeated look.

"Frak."

I smirk at the deadpan curse and open the journal, skimming through page upon page of impossibilities – all of which are presumably true. After all, he kept this journal for no one, not even himself, since according to his own writing he was fairly certain of his own death by the time he'd finished. "You did _what_ with a Daemonette?"

He looks like he might be sick. "Please don't remind me, Inquisitor."

"Stow that," I say, waving a dismissive hand at the formality. "Just call me Spiker, that'll do." He opens one eye, looking down the medi-table at me uncertainly.

"So, why am I still alive?"

I purse my lips, looking around the medicae ward for active cameras or recording devices. I asked them to turn them off before I went in, but one can never be too careful. Seeing nothing that might give me away, I turn back to him. "Well, since I already know all about your heresy, how about I tell you about mine, hmm?"

He sits up, looking less sure than ever, even as a shadow of hope crosses his face. I smile ruefully at the memory I am about to describe. "Many years ago, during my very first mission as an Inquisitor, I found evidence of a deeply-rooted Chaos cult on a hive world. I was tracing the source of this corruption up through its power structure, until I discovered that the kingpin was the very man who had called me to investigate in the first place. Apparently, it had all been a ploy to get rid of those contesting his power, while also cooling the suspicion around him."

He's looking at me still, waiting for the kicker. "All along, I was aware that there was someone helping me. Pulling strings from the shadows, ensuring that people were in the right places at the right times, dropping crucial hints that I might otherwise have missed… the entire investigation would've been much harder, and I would've probably died, if not for his intervention. When it was all over and the kingpin was a bloodstain on a wall, my shady benefactor revealed himself to me: an Alpha Legionnaire."

His head tilts in confusion at that name. I can't blame him – of all the Imperium's trillions of inhabitants, the people outside of the Astartes and the Inquisition who know about the Alpha Legion can perhaps be counted on two hands. To make things simpler, I elaborate quickly. "A member of one of the traitor legions." Now that gets his attention. I shrug and spread my hands. "So you see, while I have plenty of reasons to kill you, doing so would make me a hypocrite. That's something I have managed to _not_ be, thus far in my Inquisitorial career. I'll admit, it has taken some logical acrobatics, but my conscience has remained fairly clean, and I'd like to keep it that way. Not to mention, this journal is what persuaded me that you weren't a traitor."

He blinks. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh, yes." I flip open to several bookmarked pages. "Through all of this, after everything you've seen and done and endured, you continued believing in the Emperor. That's no small feat, you know; half the time, I have a hard time believing that what we're doing in His name is right." I suddenly fix him with a deadly serious stare, leaning forwards to look right into his eyes. "Tell me, do you still hold true to that faith?" I don't tell him, but I've already had my telepath scan him for that information; I just want to hear it from his own mouth, and he does not let me down. With absolute conviction, he answers.

"Always."

I nod, satisfied with that simple answer. "Very well. In that case, I have a proposition for you."

"What's that?"

"Well, with your knowledge of heretics and the combat experience you gained on Armatura, you've become quite the fount of abilities. If this journal reads true, you have – occasional – good judgement, and you can be very resourceful in a tight spot. I can easily say that you'd make an excellent addition to any Inquisitor's retinue, and am now extending the offer to serve in mine."

His jaw hangs open, staring in disbelief. I can see the gears turning in his head a million miles a minute, processing, evaluating, weighing, and finally… he pushes himself up and swings his legs off the medi-table, biting his lip nervously. I can tell he has reached a conclusion, but I do not push him. This is not a decision to be made lightly; no matter what he says, there will be consequences.

"That's a lot more generous than anything I was expecting, Spiker," he begins, bravely meeting my eyes. "But…"

"But you can't accept," I pick up, having sort of predicted this answer. He nods, his hand clutching the edge of the medi-table.

"You've read my journal, so I'm sure you understand why. If I became part of an Inquisitor's cadre, I…"

If I remember correctly, he lost a childhood friend to a witch hunter. Perhaps he'd feel like he was betraying her memory by joining the Inquisition. I'd certainly heard worse reasons. Still, I have the authority to force him to accept, and while that would be distasteful, I can't very well send him home. After all, I had pronounced Thomas Fenwick excommunicate traitoris, and official records stated that I executed him on Armatura. The youth before me now is effectively an unperson, which is sort of a prerequisite to becoming an Inquisitorial agent. I am on the verge of pointing this out, when he surprises me.

"I have a counterproposal, if you will. May I?" Though I am caught off-guard, I quickly nod, intrigued as to what he might suggest. Taking a deep breath, he goes on. "The Inquisition might be the most secure place for me, but I don't think I could live with myself if I went that route. Spiker, I'm a Guardsman, and I'll be a Guardsman until I die. So, if you'd be willing to help me along a bit, there's something else I had in mind." My eyes narrow suspiciously, but he won't be deterred. "If you could forge me a few papers, I'll change my name and join the Imperial Guard again. What better way to disappear? No one will miss a Guardsman."

I scrutinize him a bit longer, enough to make him squirm, then give him a disarming smile. "You really would be a good addition to my retinue… oh, well. It so happens that your request is entirely within my power." He dares to smile back. "Very well, Guardsman. Back into the meat-grinder you go. Speaking of which, you're welcome for the hand." He lifts his new augmetic right arm, its metallic surface shining in the light of the medicae ward, and turns it over, experimentally flexing his claw-tipped fingers.

"Better than three fingers, that's for sure. You cut it off?" I nod. Immediately after excommunicating him, I had severed the charred ruin of his right forearm, already partially destroyed by the explosion of his plasma pistol. I could only wonder why he hadn't stopped firing once the warboss had died. He sighs and lets the arm fall to the medi-table with a clang. "Thanks for that. Oh, I was wondering – what the frak happened on Armatura? Why were we sent to back up a decimated regiment against thousands of orks?"

I snort. "That was the Administratum, I'm afraid. They miscalculated horribly, and once they realized they had, they contacted the Ultramarines. By then, of course, it was far too late for you unfortunate few." I arch an eyebrow at him. "That's the sort of world you're heading back into, you know: fatal bureaucratic errors, underfunded supply lines, overzealous officers and a quickly-forgotten death."

He grins, putting his new iron teeth on display. "In the galaxy we're living in? Sounds like a dream." I pat the kid on the shoulder – Emperor knows he's earned at least that – and get up, pushing the stool back with my heel.

"Thought of a name yet? Who will this new Guardsman be?"

He tells me, and I can't help but smile. "All right. You know, I've heard talk of a certain agri-world on which Imperial forces are struggling against the Tau Empire. They could use some reinforcements."

"Oh, Throne," Marrlë chuckles. "Here we go."

* * *

 **A/N: So, that's that. The Death of a Guardsman is finished, perhaps not in the way many of you were expecting. I debated for a long, long time whether Fenwick should die on Armatura or not, but finally decided against it. Although it would be very 40k if he did, it would also make this into a 'Kick the Shaggy Dog' story, which I did not want it to be. So here we are. A Guardsman is dead, and a new one has been born, and while this is an ending I am completely happy with, it need not be the end of Fenwick's story. If it is, though, I sincerely hope you enjoyed the ride.**

 **This story didn't receive very much attention judging by the number of reviews it got thus far, but I am very grateful for the ones that it did. As long as someone is reading and enjoying this, I'm happy to write. With that in mind: would anyone be interested in a sequel?**


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